Summer days

I never could understand summer. For some people, it's what makes the rest of the year worth slogging through. Autumn, winter, spring; we'll have them if we must, but only if the solstice is clearly marked on the calendar as the goal line. Some people even dream of moving to parts of the world where it's summer all the time, so the trade off isn't even an option. However, having seen my share of summers and having lived in the tropics, I can safely say that I personally regard the idea of unending summer as my version of a private Hell.

Part of the reason is that in the summer the weather is "nice" as in "What are you doing sitting inside on such a nice day?" I'll tell what I'm doing; I'm staying out of the miserable heat, the shirt-damping humidity, and the unrelenting sunshine that comes down like a hydraulic press. That's what I'm doing. Who was the lunatic who decided that standing out in the sun when it's 82 degrees Fahrenheit is "nice"? Probably the same one who claimed that walking through driving sleet on a dark night in December without a hat and coat was "brisk". It isn't "nice". It's hot and sticky and horrible. It means forgoing real clothes in favour of polo shirts and shorts that make me look like either an Italian fascist who fell through a time warp, or a middle-aged boy scout–especially if I'm wearing walking boots.

Worse, all of this heat and humidity encourages nature to stop being picturesque and turn aggressive. Grass starts growing like it has back orders to fill, insects that I've never heard of start showing up in droves, brambles launch an anschluss against any open ground within reach, weeds pop up like... weeds, and battalions of slugs assault my vegetable garden in wave after wave of suicide missions, which is a bit pointless because the rabbits have got there first. All of these need dealing with and that often involves sharp implements; some of them motorised and that tends to frighten me.

But what really gets on my wick is that summer makes people want to ask me to do things. I don't mean errands, though there are enough of those, but things that are supposed to be fun, but never are. When the thermometer creeps above 75 degrees, the most fun that I want is to sit on a shaded bench outside an ancient pub called something like the End of the World somewhere in G K Chesterton country drinking a pint of Guinness. If there's a local cricket match going on, that's a bonus. If not, I'll settle for a copy of the Sunday Telegraph and a pencil for the crossword.

What I don't want is what I usually end up with, which is the dreaded day out. In the winter, a day out means a trip to the dog park or the beach. I get to dress in tweeds and my favourite felt hat and the dogs and I get a chance to collect our thoughts because the only people we encounter are the sort who enjoy going to the beach on a grey day in January with three degrees of frost. It's quiet, it's peaceful, I have my notebook in my pocket, and there's a flask of tea waiting for me in the Blazer. In July, a day out means driving through the heat to one beach only to find that there's not a hope of finding a parking space and then driving another thirty miles to a different beach that we should have gone to in the first place. Of course, everyone else has their bathing suits, but I don't because the first beach was actually a bird sanctuary where you have to walk half a mile out to sea before the water is over your ankles and I just settled for shorts. So, there I sit on the beach, which is about as attractive for me as sitting in the middle of the Sahara at noon. That's not entirely true. In the Sahara I'm unlikely to be surrounded by a bizarre collection of humanity that make me doubt, in the words of P G Wodehouse, that man is God's last word on the subject of creation. So, I sit huddled under what little shade the umbrella affords while with one hand I keep the wind from blowing said umbrella away and using the other to hold my Terry Pratchett novel that I can't seem to concentrate on for more than five seconds. I suspect that is due to my discovery that cheese and pickle sandwiches are not a great idea when picnicking on the Anvil of God.

And don't get me started on garden parties.

Perhaps the only saving graces of summer is that it makes beer and G&Ts much more refreshing, smoking a cigar in the garden is actually welcome because it drives the mosquitoes away, and when the leaves finally begin to turn it makes me feel like Noah spotting that olive branch with "land ho" printed on it in the bird's beak. It almost makes not being able to sleep because I've sweated so much that my skin feels like a brined turkey almost worthwhile.

Almost.