A simple salad on a summer evening….” These and other equally delicious things remind me of you, Summer. I’m impatiently awaiting your arrival; my mind is filled with memories of our last meeting that I daily embellish with tiny, delicious details that add another layer of longing, and even a frisson of excitement, to the promise of the first blush of your warm front. It all seems so long ago, our last tryst; probably because it was. An unreasonably and, more to the point, unseasonably long time ago. To you, the beating heart of the careless changing seasons, nothing but an unrecognisable, infinitesimal blip, but for us mortals, a good slice out of the three score and ten summers predicted by the Good Book. Will the picnic become as rare an event as the sighting of a snow leopard knitting? Will ” le dejeuner sur l’herbe” become “le dejeuner sur la moquette devant la cheminée”?
As sure as politics are pointless, and game shows are bollocks, we will once again find ourselves biting into sand filled sandwiches, sipping warm rosé from a plastic cup and thinking that “These lumpfish things remind me of caviar”. And then it’ll be Christmas again.