If you're a long time reader, you'll have gathered summer is not my favourite time of year. Far from it. I'm much more at home with cold weather (the colder the better), short dark days, long darker nights, snow, ice, sleet. I love it all.
Of course, I'm grateful to experience any of the seasons as it means I'm still here, still breathing. But summer?
(Warning: You may want to grab a cuppa before reading further as I go on a bit. Well, a lot.)
The sun. All that bright sunlight makes my head hurt and my eyes squint and sometimes brings on an ocular migraine which isn't enjoyable in the slightest, all that squiggliness of vision, the blind spots and flashes. It also highlights my less than exemplary housekeeping skills. Smears, splashes, dust, missed bits. It's always there but it's all so much more obvious when the sun shines.
The heat. If it's sunny in summer it's usually hot. Too hot to summon up the energy or enthusiasm to actually do much at all. I can just about manage to drag myself to the nearest coffee shop for an iced coconut latte. Or to the supermarket for essentials, like fly spray (see below). We delay the evening walk as long as possible, until there's just enough light to avoid stumbling into the trees and bushes. Or misplacing the dog.
The nasty whiffs. If it's hot, some people sweat. (No, not me; just occasional dampness on the forehead for yours truly.) They sweat a lot. You get my drift. The sweet scent of roses in public places it ain't.
The clothes. I never know what to wear when summer comes around. Being of a certain age, I'm way past baring body parts. It's not that I'm bothered about what others might think, I just don't enjoy seeing all the sag and droop and being reminded of my advancing years. So I just stick with the winter uniform of black jeans and military boots (unlike others who insist on sporting sandals, thereby exposing feet and toes which can't remember the last time they were treated to a pedicure), swapping the polo neck sweaters for shirts (always long sleeved, which may or may not get rolled to just above the wrist).
The food. Summer menus are just so difficult. When the temperature is high, I don't really want to cook or bake at all (though I did manage a batch of raspberry and lemon cookies to take to a friend on one of the hottest days last week). My repertoire of salads is very small and, let's face it, there's only so much you can do with a pot of hummus. Cereal consumption certainly tends to increase and decisions about dinner are mostly confined to toppings for toast (jam or Marmite on yours?) during the summer months chez nous. Other people seem to enjoy barbecues at this time of year. I know because there's an almost constant reek of smoke mixed with charred meat in the air.
The garden. In winter, I can just ignore it. Come summer, there are always jobs to be done. Pavings to be power washed, grass to be cut, plants to be watered, pond to be cleaned/topped up, fish to be fed, rose bushes to be dead headed. Ours is only a small plot but one where it's perpetually autumn and there are never more dead leaves covering everything than during the summer months. It's all largely down to the ginormous eucalyptus which seemed a good idea when we were planting 26 years ago but, with the endless dropping of huge amounts of little red leaves (which require thrice daily sweeping or gathering by hand whilst crawling on knees), is now the bane of my life. Or at least one of them.
The noise. Everyone is drawn outside in the warm weather so, even if you fancy a quiet half hour sitting with your book in the shaded summerhouse at the bottom of your garden, all you can hear are the constant sounds from others'. Why is there a tendency to up the voice and radio volume when outdoors? I wouldn't recognise the people who live in the houses at the back of ours (where not so very long ago there was a lovely field) if they knocked on the door but I know an awful lot about them and their musical tastes. One set of neighbours bought their granddaughter a karaoke machine for her recent birthday (yes, it does work outside and yes, said granddaughter only seems to know the words to 'Happy birthday'). These are the same people who sit the other side of the fence and soak up the rays from early morning until late at night. I kid you not, they must have skin like rhinos. Then, every single day throughout the summer we're treated to round after annoying round of 'I'm Popeye the sailor man' as the ice cream van makes its way through the estate. And then does another circuit in case you missed it the first time or fancy a second Mr Whippy. Drives. Me. Mad.
The hay fever. I never suffered as a child (well, there was a distinct lack of pollen in the slum clearance area I grew up in, though we did have scented geraniums in pots on top of the frozen food freezer in our shop) but, boy oh boy, I do now. Streaming eyes, which also itch until I want to gouge them out, along with sneezing and a constantly dripping nose (not particularly welcome during downward dog or when both hands are employed to pack groceries at the supermarket checkout), are the order of the day. My favourite summer accessory is a natty little box of Kleenex man-size tissues.
The makeup. I wear makeup every day. Not much and never mascara. But I really really can't go without my security blanket. Eyeliner. Which in summer inevitably runs in charcoal hued rivulets down my cheeks because of the streaming eyes. Not the look I aim for though maybe The Pagliacci will be the next beauty trend. Littlest is practising, 'cos you never know.
The flies. They're not at all like those sweet furry little bees going about their bee business and they're every bliddy where. Just the sound of one whizzing past my left earhole or banging into a window makes me feel a tad nauseous. Because we all know what flies are attracted to (and where they've probably been lingering before deciding to pay you a visit).
The traffic. There's no point driving anywhere in the summer because you can bet your sweet bippy that everyone else will be heading in the same direction. And even if you do decide to pop to your favourite beach or the big park down the road or the market town just over the county border, you can't find a parking space when you eventually arrive. Because the world and his wife will have beaten you to it.
The sleeping. Or, more accurately, the not sleeping. An airless, warm bedroom despite the wide open windows, fighting the summer weight duvet, constant tossing and turning, do not make for even a half decent night's kip.
The bites. Not a summer has gone by where I haven't been a tasty snack for some member or other of the insect family, despite all the body covering clothes. The little blighters have a knack of getting inside shirts and jeans and even socks and I react badly, ending up with red, sore, saucer sized bites. One time, a nibble on my ankle caused my foot to swell to the size of, well, two feet. As an aunt (not, I admit, my favourite) used to say when I was a little girl, 'What do you expect? They go for the rotten meat.'
But it isn't all doom and gloom. Summer's great for............... hmmm, sorry, can't think of anything right now.
Oh, I do love winter, me.