One week. That’s how long it lasted. Well, better than nothing I suppose.
Hands up how many of you actually dug out that elusive summer wardrobe, ready in anticipation to be worn?
Mine is still sitting in a pile, crinkled with mothball aroma waiting to be washed. I hadn’t even got round to it and I already feel so foolish for getting excited that these items of clothing would actually be worn for longer this year.
I hate to moan about the one topic which infiltrates many a lift/water cooler/waiting for your coffee at Pret, conversation. But how can we not?! It’s built up so much in advance with bikinis plaguing the shops when we’re still buying more winter knits, summer grooves blasting through the airwaves (queue Daft Punk) and being force fed (sorry) dieting tips by every newsstand publication.
Then alas, its here! Yes! At last! Who cares if I still need to stuff my bag with a spare jacket, scarf and obligatory pair of leggings for when it gets nippy in the evenings? Roll out the Pimms and iced cider, summer is here! Queue everyone actually cracking a smiling on the tube, unsavoury topless men at Asda, flip flops at work, sunglasses used as hair accessorizes and office men facing the annual conundrum of whether shorts are acceptable. They are not.
But then, it’s as if we’re all in an episode of the Crystal Maze, rushing against the impending hour glass, competing to fit in as many activities as possible before our time runs out and the sun inevitably disappears. Have a barbecue, a pint in a beer garden, play frisbee in the park, do a picnic lunch on that smidge of grass outside the office and wear that expensive summer dress/panama hat you bought last year but only wore once.
That sense of urgency to be outside or feel like you’re missing out if you stay inside. That stubbornness and commitment that make you insist on sleevelessness when you’re clearly shivering. All innate qualities one must possess to be able to survive prolonged winters and fully embrace the fleeting summers in this great yet punishing city.
Then low and behold, the chilly winds return, the heavens open and then you know… it’s time for Wimbledon.
Image by Ewan-M courtesy of Flickr