Told you. We are in England and you have been warned. Blink and it’s gone!
This is a July evening. Right this minute it is 18C and I am wearing a fleece indoors. No, I don’t think it’s just me, my young girl is in her jumper too. What are we going to do with the English summer? One minute everyone is getting the shorts/summer dress/sandals out, next minute the leather jacket is back on. Not good when the wind and rain always interrupt play at Wimbledon, and Murray is on Court One.
Why am I whingeing? Summer is not even my favourite season. Winter is. I am allergic to sunlight, and have to use sunscreen 60. Call me vain, I look ridiculous in a hat. I don’t like going to the beach, hate sand in my sandals. How do you get sand off the beach mat/towels, out from between your toes?
Pebble beaches I don’t mind. There is one in the neighbourhood, just slightly over an hour’s drive. If we are lucky, the wind is not so strong as to blow the tent away and we can stay for an afternoon. No, we are not camping out. I need to shield myself from the sunshine, remember? With a couple of cushions, I lie in my peaceful shelter staring at the clouds and the North Sea, neglecting the book next to me. My husband and daughter are either rowing on the mere, or staying on the beach where I can see them looking for the perfect pebble. That is one of the rare tranquil summery moments I dearly love. But we do have to wait for summer to stay, don’t we? If only it would…
So what are we going to do in the meantime? I happened to come across Shall I compare thee in a different form. Please don’t get into the argument who The Bard dedicated this to, just enjoy.
Here is David Gilmour Sonnet 18:
(I wish I knew how to insert the video here. I tried, but there’s no ENTER button. Would you click the link? I promise it’s worth your while.)