I’ve always been ambivalent on summer. I’ve never been a huge one for being out in the sun, but last winter, while we didn’t have any prolonged spells of snow and ice, saw some vicious cold snaps after we’d completely skipped autumn (at least in London) that I was really looking forward to the longer days. Then we never actually had a spring. I was thinking, ‘Well, when summer comes, hopefully it’s a long one and like last year, it almost bleeds into the winter”, but we don’t seem to have had much of a summer either.
For me, summer always ends on the 31st of August. That’s my cut-off point. None of this late September business. Because of how unpleasant last winter was, this summer had become a massive thing for me. Some long respite before another long, harsh winter. To not have one is bitterly disappointing.
While my feelings towards summer are mixed, I do feel life is timestamped by memorable summers. I had a few, not many, but there were a few. As a kid, we rarely went on holiday. We were classic immigrants. Suitcases piled on top of our wardrobes, except in my family’s case, we rarely went on holiday. We all slept in one room, and every night, the suitcases were the last thing I’d ever see before closing my eyes and attempting to sleep in a room with three other people. No easy thing.