The calendar says that the summer begins on the 21st of June and ends promptly on the 23rd of September. I don’t know who selected those particular dates, but I feel inclined to tell them they are wrong. In my world, summer begins on the 1st of June and ends at the end of August because that’s when Back to School was and my mother had to buy me new uniforms. During that period, I fully expect the weather to obey me, to give me nothing but glorious sunshine and blue skies. But if you live in England, you know the weather has been anything but glorious. While the rest of Europe has been lit ablaze, my woolly jumpers have emerged four months too early, and my umbrella and I have engaged in battles with 40 mile winds.
As we near August, I can sense the internet is about to start sharing reminders about how little we have left in the year. The queasy sing-song voice of “there’s only six months left, what are you going to do about it? ” runs along the same line as a ticking clock counting down to midnight. It feels like a sick joke that July is almost over — and that this feeling of time running out will happen every year. A new month comes around and time is, once again, trundling down the hill at full speed.
Where has all the time gone? Some days feel a bit too close to déjà vu to feel normal. Didn’t I already do this? Why does my life still feel the same? Why do I have to do it all over again — the birthdays, the mindless chit chat and endless commuting.
Sometimes I think of the summer's past.
My first summer here was spent living with my parents after moving back from Boston. It wasn’t the season of drinking in pubs and snogging strangers in corners that I had imagined my early twenties to be — far from it. It was a fragile tango around the house as we tried to set boundaries. My attempt to create a home office involved a rickety metal table found in the garage placed awkwardly in the corner of the living room. My friend and coworker ‘A’ and I spent hours on FaceTime with each other to mimic being in the office. While the house was a cramped safezone, the world outside seemed to fall apart. The only delivery I ever got was from Waterstones, and the mailman consistently let my parcel five feet from the front door. The neighbourhood was silent. Every day felt like groundhog day; the hours stretching into days then weeks then months, and suddenly it was December and nobody had left their house in nearly a year.
The summer of 2022, post-Covid, was more eventful. My family brought home a new dog, I started a new job, went on a handful of dates and, most importantly, I grew an abundance of spinach for the first time. We were in the aftermath of lockdown and, for a brief time, things felt normal — even though many things had clearly changed.
The year after, we had the hottest summer on record, the tarmac melted at Gatwick and we all laid on the kitchen floor pressing our bodies into the cold marble. I sat in my bra while I worked; everything became difficult in 40 degree heat. The weather channel was a permanent hue of dark red, as climate activists around the world shouted from the rooftops of what a debacle the extra +1 degree was causing to the planet.
But summer this year feels unlike any other. The remnants of early spring linger as rain pours and wind chills whip through the city. Dark grey clouds hang above and everybody is saying “Where’s the sun?” before they laugh off how British the weather is. I don’t laugh. I weep. Summer is my favourite season and yet I never seem to be blessed enough to get more of it.
There’s that thing iPhones do where it picks a bunch of photos and plays a little slideshow reel of what you were doing at this time last year, or the years before that. It often encapsulates moments I’d rather forget: reminders of ex-boyfriends, awful holidays, and that old photo of me in 2008 where I looked like a tomboy. This year it reminded me of those summers past.
I had hoped that summer would be the season of promises. The promise of more pub meetups with friends. I would throw parties and cook things and eat things and wear pretty floral dresses; I would stay out late and socialise and let my hair down. I will. I will. I will. My life will feel like a reflection of the season — free and joyful and alive and electric. Like a movie.
But this summer hasn’t felt anything close to a season of promises. It’s been an extension of spring and the curl of a sweater hugging you close as the heavens unleash an astronomical amount of rain at your front door. My mother — the weather woman of our household — has said that a jet stream has been bringing low pressure to the UK which prolongs the unsettled weather. I feel inclined to yell at the sky.
When summer does arrive it's a bit like a guest who always shows up too early or too late. Summer abruptly arrives one week and then it’s warm and beautiful and everything feels like it will be okay. When summer is here I would forgive anything; the air is salty and sweet, mixed with freshly applied sunscreen. The city is usually ugly under the eyes of overbearing skyscrapers and glass buildings, but turns beautiful when set against a baby blue backdrop. The leaves rustle in time with the brushing of wind and, if you listen closely between the car horns and heavy traffic, you’ll hear the familiar chirping of a band of crickets in the long grass.
After dark, the neighbourhood is louder and looser than usual. Children in the building let out shrieks of laughter as their parents chat with each other in the courtyard. The familiar ‘ding’ of bicycle bells ringing and footballs bouncing off walls echo loudly. People dust off the picnic blankets and laze in the sun, stretched out like cats, children line up for the ice cream van and everybody is simply nicer. Summer feels better perhaps because it’s a season in contrast with the others. Autumn, Winter and Spring are tied together because they share something in common — rain, wind, and shorter days. They’re the seasons of darkness and misery. Summer is Love. It’s long days, it’s pink and orange skies, condensation dripping down the jug of fresh lemonade at the local cafe. Summer is everything that other seasons can’t be. Amid the balmy summer air, every risk beckons to be embraced, giving us no reason to return home. Why not stand in the sun, laugh excessively, and wholeheartedly accept every opportunity. It’s a season of unleashed optimism, both thrilling and terrifying, and I find myself powerless to resist. I wouldn’t want it any other way.
I loved this post, Natalie - thank you so much for a really super read. I learned just last week that camping in warm, sunny dry weather is FAR nicer than in the grey, wet cold. It works both ways though - yesterday morning I was grumbling that I was going to HAVE to fill up can after can at the water butt to water the garden..... but when torrential rain arrived - and remained for eight hours - I could cross that job off my list without having had to actually DO it! 🤣