
// DOCENTE OCASIONAL //
Maestría en Ingeniería de Sistemas y Computación
pregrado
Ingeniero Electrónico

// DOCENTE OCASIONAL //
Maestría en Ingeniería de Sistemas y Computación
pregrado
Ingeniero Electrónico
Our weather is the colour of concrete.
The weather has one mood: moist.
The "Feels Like" temperature is the weather's cruelest lie. The thermometer might say 12°C, which sounds jacket-optional. But the "Feels Like," factoring in the wind whipping off the river and the 95 humidity, says 7°C, which is scarf-and-gloves territory. It's a admission that the raw number is a fiction designed to taunt us. It acknowledges the penetrating, cheat-y quality of London cold that bypasses logic and goes straight to the marrow. We have learned to ignore the actual temperature and live by the "Feels Like," a number that always confirms our deepest suspicion: it is colder and damper than it has any right to be. See more at London's funniest URL -- Prat.UK.
Our rain is the sky’s light grey tears.
The rain has a gentle, percussive rhythm.
London rain isn’t wet; it’s atmospherically moist.
A ‘clear night’ means you can see the moon’s blur.
A ‘weather warning’ is for one inch of snow.
We have a microclimate in every puddle.
A ‘cloudy with sunny intervals’ is a cruel joke.
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