Summer

Summer is approaching. All over the country people are doing the annual wardrobe switcheroo, bidding farewell to baggy thermals and offering a sexy hello to all things with zero wool content.

As we speak, British meteorologists sit muzzled in dark corners, frothing at the mouth desperate to be the first one to bark out the phrase ‘It’s going to be a scorcher!’

The country has had enough of snow and eternally losing one glove. United, the women of Britain, stand, and boldly declare ‘Be gone wretched black opaque tights! I shall not look on you for at least three months, for my pallid, veiny legs are free! Summer is here and I DON’T NEED A FRICKING CARDIGAN!’

Because everyone loves Summer don’t they? Or so you’d think… I have a confession – I am a Summer Scrooge. I hate it. I hate the sweat moustaches, I hate the wasps, I hate the teenage girls who don’t have cellulite yet do have hotpants.

Every year I try to get on board with our most hallowed annual event, and every year, as I witness the afternoon sun glinting off my knee stubble whilst lost in the panicked thought of, ‘Shit, I forgot to put on deodorant again’, I realise that I’m not cut out for this season.

For starters, Summer, like your first teenage boyfriend who makes you do things in car parks you aren’t quite ready to do, is so manipulative.

Summer sweet talks us into wearing things with spaghetti straps. Summer pressures us into waxing things. And most upsetting of all, Summer guilts us into eating salad instead of PIE.

And the anti-pastry rule is just the start of the commandments when it comes to eating. Summer demands we ‘picnic’ because NOT sitting on some brown grass next to a bin in a weird side saddle position so people can’t see up your skirt, nibbling something lettucey would be a waste of this opportunity to worship Summer’s *cue Louie Spence hand clicks* fabulousness.

And if, when you do stand up you can manage to walk, seeing as you now have two dead legs, Summer then forces you to pretend to be pleased that some arsehole has bought along a Frisbee.

‘Amazing!’ you yell! ‘I LOVE Frisbee!’

No you don’t; only Labradors and weird male philosophy students like Frisbee.

I know my opinion is controversial because when I tell people that I prefer cold weather they look at me like I’ve said ‘YUCK, an orgasm’. But you know what, I don’t care. Me and my opaque tights are just biding our time, waiting to get back to our one true love, Winter.

Winter, with his sexy greying hair who whispers in your ear that he loves you just the way you are. He doesn’t care if you’re pasty, or stubbly or rarely seen without a hot water bottle tied around your middle with a dressing gown cord like a cosy suicide bombers vest.

The only commandment he makes, is a thing of beauty and wonder. ‘Thou shall eat pie. Lots and lots of pie.’

Thank God it’s Christmas in eight months.