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Monday, September 05, 2016


summer is not my favourite time of year.

i dread it.

i don't like the bight sun.

i don't like the heat. don't care if it is dry heat or wet heat i don't like it.

i don't like that everyone else is telling me how nice and how wonderful it is.

i hate it.

i positively loathe it when it becomes heatwave city and we get those last few dying days of summer that appear when the nights are closing in and we should be enjoying the joys of autumn leading to the sharp bracing pleasure of winter.

guess who hasn't enjoyed the last few days of our indian summer heatwave.

oh that would be me.

it is true that part of the problem is that i am a fat bastard.

a fat bastard who sweats a lot.

so sweltering sizzling weather is my enemy.

i have felt faint. i have felt like a sausage in a microwave ready to pop as i overcook. i have felt drained and heavy limbed as the sun bleached out energy. every movement a conscious effort, lethargic, woozy and short tempered a new, even more, unlikeable version of me: short tempered misery guts.

let us not forget the watery eyes and sneezy nose as i spend a week or two as the victim of hay fever, the nights of not being able to sleep because i am unable to get comfortable in the stifling heat that turns a place into a cheap sauna, when i do sleep i wake to oppressive heat already half dead knowing that when i go out the heat will punch me in the face like a sledgehammer bouncing off an anvil.

days spent longing for a break in the weather. a downpour of rain to freshen and cool the air, when it does come it is over in a flash and before you know the street is as dry as a bone again. reading news rags and wishing that the horror weather stories of the daily mail and daily express just for once contained a modicum of truth (little chance – on anything they write to be honest). looking to the skies and hoping that a lone cloud is a precursor to a storm.

yes i fucking hate summer.

not even the joyous pleasure of pretty women in skimpy clothes can take away from the fact that it is summer. in fact it is a cruel game on behalf of the creator that at the time when ladies strut and preen their stuff i am at my least interested. come winter when covered in puffa jackets and woollen jackets i am ready – but nothing to see.

then just when you think that is it – all over autumn here we get blistering indian summer.

and i fucking hate indian summers even more than regular summers.

currently not a happy bunny.

bring on wind, bring on rain, bring on snow, bring on winds.

bring on winter.

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