Caomhan Hates on Summer

January 31, 2010

I firkin hate the summer.

The holy troika of sun, sweat and sores ensure it’s a miserable time indeed for those with delicate lilly white skin.

We spend the entire time anticipating her arrival and the moment there is but a gap in the clouds, out come the corn beef thighs and Bermuda shorts, with acres of pimply skin on display for all to endure.

Then the sun actually shows up and we start to sweat like the pigs who know they’re dinner.

Struggling to remain upright and impersonal on public transport, we drip like condensation and fan our selves with crumpled up free sheets. Sliding up and down the pole like Sharon Curley, eventually we collapse on top of one another, bitching bitterly about this accursed weather and dreaming of cooler climes.

All fashion taste goes out the window as we desperately try to naturally attain what fake and bake has been doing less than adequately all year. Tight t-shirts and short shorts on a well toned 18-year-old maybe delightfully indecent but on a middle aged munter it is ungodly.

As the heat swelters, perspiration soaks through the cheap Primark clothing and the city becomes a menopausal wet t-shirt contest, with limp hair, sagging chests and valiant attempts to remain composed as the very foundation of their being melts away.

Overdosing on vitamin D, our skin burns and blisters, then snap, crackles and drops off our body. Sun stricken commuters pass out on tubes, causing untold delays to the more weather wise. While picnics in the park or ‘barbies’ turned out to be nought more than culinary Russian roulette.

We push ourselves to the limit, trying to make every moment of the sunshine count, storing up memories like nuts for the winter. Holidays from hell are grinned and bared, festivals survived and even the crusties emerge from their squats to clog up local parks with their tuneless banter and dreadlocked drivel.

And then there are the bugs. Like winged Shylock’s they have come for my blood and take it with interest. My backside is like Checkpoint Charlie. A tense stand off ensues between my hand and my heiney, a desperate urge to scratch only prevented by the red blotched devastation that would ensue. Cream is applied, prayers unanswered and, while the lambs may be silent, that never ending buzz rings out into the night. Taunting me. Threatening me.

So forgive me if I’m counting the days ’til that burning ball of brightness disappears once more and we are poaked and prodded by the wild whims of winter. Until the freckles fade from my arm, the colour from my cheeks and the sweat induced hump from my back.

Till then I’ll just have to rely on my trusty sumbrella to get me through


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