by Ashley Lister
As has been noted, there has been a confrontational quality
to my writing over the past few weeks. This has been noted in my angst-fuelled poetry,
it has been noted in my furious fiction and it has been evinced in the internal
memos I’ve been sending to some of the a***holes at the workplace.
I blame it on the encroaching summertime.
I do not like summertime.
Whilst many people enjoy the warm weather and extended hours
of daylight, I am not a lover of summertime. I find it is an affront to the
senses:
In the summer time, I find, there is too much bare flesh on
the promenade.
Those who know me will be aware that I’m not a prude. Truth
be told, I have a penchant for bare flesh and could look at it for hours.
However, I have little time for the pasty-coloured bare flesh that gets exposed
on the prom during a British summer. Half the time it’s like looking at a
skinned halibut in a bikini. The rest of the time it’s not quite so attractive.
I also find there is too much perspiration.
It’s been said that deodorants and common sense are never
used by those people who most badly need them. I shall say no more on the
subject except to mention that summer offends my sense of smell.
Our national anticipation of summertime is a constant
irritation. Everyone in the UK acts as though we’re going to have a California heatwave
starting in late May and continuing until early September. When the reality
kicks in, three mild days before a Bank Holiday downpour, everyone acts with aggrieved
disappointment.
Personally I think we should start investing our hopes in
one of the other seasons. The other three are more dependable because of their
consistent ability to deliver. I’m hoping for a really crappy autumn this year,
followed by a dire, miserable winter and an unsatisfying and unmemorable spring.
If we approach the seasons with this mindset, even if our hopes are dashed, we
won’t be disappointed.