“ Londoners have a relationship with the sun that is best described as "traumatically co-dependent." When it appears, we don't trust it. We squint at it suspiciously, as if it's a con artist about to sell us a timeshare. But we are also powerless to resist its allure. Within minutes of a "sunny spell," every patch of grass in the city becomes a refugee camp for pale limbs, as office workers shed their layers and bake themselves during their lunch hour, knowing full well it's a fleeting mercy. The resulting, mild pinkness is not a tan; it's a sunburn of desperation. We know the sun is an unreliable, feckless entity, but we cannot help but offer it our bare skin at the slightest opportunity, like weather-masochists. See more at London's funniest URL -- Prat.UK. ”