(*Image courtesy of weheartit.com*)
The sun rears its pretty head for all of five minutes and woah. The usually grumpy and reserved neighbours of mine are dangling all sorts of body parts over their barbecue (did anyone actually ask for extra pork...?), there are more topless people swanning around the town centre than in Nuts magazine, and Pimms gets purchased by the caseload, so we can go seriously wild and have a 'cheeky little drink' in the garden. Out of a neon-coloured plastic tumbler. At 11am. The excitement is almost on par with deliriousness. Wowzers-sans-trousers.
There's no denying that the British summer (all FOUR WHOLE days of it) is a cracking time of year. I'm definitely partial to warmth and blue skies and the strange, amusing, bare-bodied side effects that come with it. I'm also a skinny-dipping extraordinaire and have no desire to give up such a liberating extra-curriculuar activity. (Sorry dad.) But despite its nude silhouette shaped perks, and despite my very British penchant for caseloads of Pimms, I can't help but look forward to the colder months of the year. Oh yes, I defy the British 'roll on summer, I say' stereotype. I am a winter bird. I am a rockin' robin. (Without the rockin'. I'm probably not cool enough to be assigned such an adjective.)
Every single year I am pointlessly optimistic, thinking that I will be tanned and toned and sexy like so many ladyfolk are at this time of year. I develop a warped fantasy that I shall run gallantly along the beach; Baywatch style, arousing fine strangers in the process, or that I shall laze elegantly in the park enjoying the stifling heat upon my bare, glowing skin. I shall be hayfever free; refreshed by the summer air.
And every year it's the same; summer cruelly melts my jolly little fantasy. I am sweaty, irritated, and lathered in factor 50. If I run Baywatch style my breasts become uncontrollable objects of great hazard; bouncing off in all kinds of awkward, uncomfortable directions. If I attempt to laze elegantly in the park the grass will make me itch or I'll end up running away screaming from something with too many legs. My hayfever comes back with a vengeance. And if a miracle happens and I do get a glow, it's absolutely positively crimson. Yup, come summer, I am a lobster with two legs, sweat patches, frizzy hair, swollen eyes, congestion issues, and heat rash. How's that for an arousing image, fine strangers?
For me, Autumn and Winter are the creme-de-la-creme of British season-hood. I love wellies, cosy nights, geeky patterned jumpers, and the romantic promise of Christmas. I love onesie o'clock and being the little spoon. I love how going out into darkness at 7pm makes me feel all mysterious and Sherlocky, even though I'm actually just popping to Tesco to stock up on shampoo and onions. I love the orchestra of shivering and hand-rubbing. I love no extra pork. I love being able to breathe like an ordinarily functioning human. Most of all, I love sprouting impressive 3ft leg hair and hiding it beneath knitted socks or thick tights or jeans like a dirty little secret, freed of the Baywatch run panic. (Channing Tatum, if you're reading, that was most definitely a joke.... Ha. Ha. Guffaw. Definitely jokin' smokin'. You're so gullible. Hardy ha.*)
I would love for Summer and I to have a beautiful friendship, but truth be told; we just don't get along. And so, when the annual 'oh-nooooo-here-comes-bloody-winter' misery starts this year, I'll be sat feeling pretty smug, because I am genuinely delirious with excitement at the thought of getting get stuck into another hideous British winter. Wowzers-warm-trousers.
What's your favourite season? Are you chummy with summer or are you a winter bird like me?
*Shit. Where's my razor?