I recently emerged from a building at around 5pm to find that it was still light outside. This small moment filled me with joy, because it means that light nights and warmer weather are finally coming back. Summer can’t get here quick enough for me.
There have been times when, huddled under eight blankets and clutching a hot water bottle over my fleece pyjamas, I’ve wondered if I might be cold-blooded. My circulation is awful, and while other people complain about the heat and humidity in a room I’m usually pulling a scarf and gloves back out of my bag. I feel warm for approximately three months of the year, and then it’s gone again.
Summer heat is like heaven. I like to let my skin see some natural light and air after months of jumpers and boots. True, I often turn the colour of fresh lobster after about 20 minutes in the sun, but I’m getting better at remembering to keep a large bottle of Factor 50+ in my handbag.
I’ll admit there are some other disadvantages to summer weather, and they’re mostly caused by other people. Last year, there were two incidents at a bus stop that somewhat creeped me out. I was wearing a dress and some nice heels both times – and as the lovely people at Everyday Sexism will tell you, that should bear no relevance to my story whatsoever. Sadly it seems that any hemline higher than the ankle will make some people act like their brain just fell out of their ear.
As it was, the first thing that happened was that a passing cyclist clocked me in his line of vision and promptly fell off his bike. I did ask him if he was okay, but he mumbled something about the brakes not working and made a hasty departure. Given the burning shade of crimson that exploded over his entire face, I doubt the brakes were the whole problem.
The second time was more disturbing – I could hear someone making kissing and whistling noises at me from the other side of the road. When I turned to find out who it was and yell at them for being such a prick, I was horrified to discover that it was my hairdresser. Suffice to say I waved both middle fingers at him, told him where to shove his hairdryer and cancelled my next appointment. I’ve never gone back. Considering this was a man who used to complain I had too much foundation on when I went in for a fringe trim, I suspect that’s for the best.
I can’t wait to stroll down the street in a summer dress and soak up the rays again. And should anyone wish to comment on my attire or suggest I “get them out for the lads”, they’ll get a swift espadrille to the unmentionables.
