A EULOGY FOR summer

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In the same way the infamous Norwegian Blue would be pushing daisies had it not been nailed to its perch, summer has finally kicked the bucket. It's passed on, it's ceased to be, it's expired and met its maker.

 

Worst of all, its death means we've lost our favourite conversational topic - the weather - which leaves only Brexit and the Great British Bake Off in its wake. No more predicting record temperatures for bank holiday weekends or the Daily Mail pointlessly announcing that it's hotter in Romford than it is in Tenerife. Summer has abandoned us, and there's nothing we can do about it.

 

A warm day is the midsummer equivalent of Christmas morning. We wake up and just know something's different, that something special lies outside the confines of our bedrooms. Our beds feel clammy and our throats are dry, but that's okay - it means it's a sunny day, and we love a sunny day. Gone are the grey clouds in this new naked sky. No more of the familiar breeze that puts us at ease. Everything is new, and we must let the world know.

We change our news headlines. Have you noticed we do that? No more protests or politics, or opinions on debates. Just soundbites and clips of ice-cream drips on wrists, of temperatures bubbling and threatening to boil over, of family cars blocking the arteries of the country with traffic and plastic buckets. In the summer, all that matters across the nation is that Britain is warmer than usual. We don't need to know anything else.

When it's hot outside, our eyes can't help but sink in the heavy wetness. We retreat to the shades of our homes in hopes of our blinds stifling the warmth outside, yet even as we slip into a siesta we still hear the sky pressing itself against our windows. We feel it force itself into our bedrooms and under our covers, stitching our skin to our sheets with its strange, sticky touch. We never stay in bed for long in summer.

 

The heat enshrouds our bodies, so we step outside to cool down in cotton dresses we never wear and never liked. Beads of sweat bleed down our backs and leave trails of red in their burning wake, but that's what summer is all about, right? Everyone loves summer. You love summer, too. Summer is what makes the rest of the dreary British weather worth it. You and I will select melting white chairs, and there we will sit until the sun eats us whole. 

Shame it's come to an end.

Mared Jones is a writer and goblin whose hobbies include dissociating, luring cats into her garden, misplacing her tea, and writing about herself in the third person.

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