Requiescat - English Summer MMVI

Our glorious summer, of which we had such high hopes, and which showed such promise, appears to have given up on us. As I survey the brooding black clouds that have hung over us for nearly 2 weeks now, it but remains for me to scatter some earth on its coffin, and say a few words about what was and what might have been.

Very short and very sweet is the obvious way of characterising it. There was no spring to speak of, but plenty to moan about. It was the wettest May since 1773, and we scarcely saw a glimpse of the sun for about six weeks together. Even those who aren't really big sun fans were complaining about the lack of sun, so, for once, it wasn't just me being impossibly demanding. It was official. The miserable weather got to as far as early June without any sign of relenting, and it looked like this summer was going to join the roll call of shame (along with 2004, 02, 2000) by being monumentally crap.

And then miraculously the clouds cleared, revealing that skies could also come in blue in this country. The sun came out, kept coming out and actually stuck around. For weeks. The temperatures soared, records fell, and we found ourselves enjoying that rare and glorious thing, a 'scorcher'. Or what is merely called a 'summer' elsewhere.

The weather transformed London and the way it went about its life. Buses that were usually full to bursting in the evening rush hour went past nearly empty. People were out making the most of the weather. The atmosphere was palpable. People relaxed, smiled, enjoyed themselves. In short, they lived.

That's what I mourn most, as I look out over the courtyard where two weeks ago I sunbathed and bar b qued with my neighbours: life. Lived to the full. Spontaneously, out of doors, in the heat, and then long into the fragrant night. BBQs or picnic every night. Too hot to sleep. Then why bother. People just hung out on the streets. On weekdays. They just sat on steps of squares, chatting late into the night. Like they do in other countries, and without the need for alcohol. For a few weeks we glimpsed another world, and knew what it must be like to live with a degree of certainty. Not ruled and persistently frustrated by a capricious, vicious, predicably unpredicatable climate.

And just as we were getting used to it, it was snatched untimely from our grasp. It surprised us with its arrival, and has dumbfounded me with its premature departure. I feel cheated, indignant and frustrated. I loved this summer, because of the way it came from nowhere and with such force. And now it has gone. I was looking forward to its slow maturing. Its slipping gracefully into a well-earned autumnal repose. I was speculating on whether I would be able to accept the coming of winter with a bit more equanimity than usual. I believed the hype put about by the media that August was going to continue if not exceed the record-beating efforts of June and July. 'If you think it's hot now', one of them asserted, 'you ain't seen nothing yet'. And I let myself believe them.

Which is why I'll be stuck in grey rainy England for the August bank holiday next weekend. The first time in about 6 years. When the temperatures really soared in July I'd been out of the country. Worse, I'd been in Spain where it was ... I can hardly say it without spitting venom ... where it was cloudy and a bit drizzly the day the records fell in Britain. As August is usually hotter than July I was determined not to get caught out again. Idiot.

And so another week starts under grey, grumpy clouds. With grey grumpy people shuffling back to work. A sense of unfinished business, unfulfilled potential hangs over us. It really feels like summer has gone, autumn will be soon be here, and something truly special has died.

Waiting for my man (Helios)

The sun returned yesterday. Albeit fleetingly. By lunchtime it was pissing down. The sky was streaked with milky plumes, and there was a decidedly autumnal turn to the air. The long hot days of last month now seem like a distant dream.

I had established a ritual in those balmy days of getting an early bus to work, and sitting in the sun for about an hour and a half in a small park in Bloomsbury. Some days the sun was hot enough to prickle the skin and even tan at 7.45 am. A great way to start the day.

Yesterday I visited my favourite spot for the first time in what must be nearly 2 weeks, and the sun was barely touching my usual bench. I sat there shivering for ten minutes before it got into its stride.

This square, in fact most of Bloomsbury, is a haven for junkies. Spilling over from St Giles (Centre Point), and pushed South by the on-going overhaul of Kings Cross. You get used to seeing them about, urgently intent at 7.30 am. As I sat, shivering on my bench, waiting for my own man (Helios), I recognized an affinity with them. My sun devotion a dependency not so very different from theirs, and often taking me to great lengths to get my ‘fix’. My Turkey needed seriously warming up that morning.

A few weeks ago there would have been a choice of benches if my favourite spot (the Early Riser Special) was occupied. Today only my usual spot was barely straining into the sun, and was sprawlingly occupied by what looked like a vagrant. Shabby genteel, Dickens would have called him. He seemed engrossed in his book about chess moves, so I perched on the far end of my sunspot. And then the sun rose higher, and along with it the unmistakable aroma of street-sleeping hygienic neglect. A “Hot Tramp” may have turned Mr Bowie on (each to his own), but it made my vigil on MY sunspot deeply unpleasant for about another ten minutes. Before I could shuffle over to another that had finally been reclaimed by the late-summer sun. I can see my devotion is going to have its trials as the sun retreats this year.

Today is ropey. Rain. Overcast, with the occasional glimmer of hope. What has happened to our glorious summer? I despair...

My first posting, although it will be the culmination of many weeks, months even years of ruminations. I should have started this earlier, but I now have a purpose for a spot, so today seems a good time to dip my toe into the blogsphere.

The purpose. I’m trying to put together a website devoted to celebrating and sharing sunshine. It will be at www.lovesunshine.org when I have content, design, functionality, layout and everything else sorted. I’m making very slow progress as I try to scale a near vertical learning curve equipped with near zero resources, less understanding and no common sense or technical ability. O, and very little time. I do have lots of wonderful chums ‘though, who are giving me a leg up as I attempt to get my head round the various decisions and scary complexities involved in going public in hyperspace. If it’s still called that.

Why today? Because I can have a good old moan about the weather. The glorious and decidedly uncharacteristic summer we were enjoying until a few days ago has given up on us, and left me - a hopeless sun-addict - speechless with indignation. Or vociferous rather. The newspapers had all been predicting an August even hotter than the record-breaking July, and I was looking forward to another month of blue skies, scorching sun, outdoor living, accomplished BBQs, and a life fulfilled by a proper allocation of regular reliable sunshine. An exotic window had opened to us in England. Affording a glimpse of another world. One we usually only see in brief tantalizing episodes – the ‘sunny spells’ that fleetingly cast their glamour over us here – or when we outsource the stuff overseas. I was just getting used to planning things, eating outdoors, and prostrating myself on grass the colour and texture of Wheatabix. I like grass to look like Wheatabix. It’s the sign of a good summer.

But after a few bouts of torrential rain, and a few days of grim, grey porridgey skies we are slipping into an alarmingly familiar pattern of business-as-bloody-borringly usual in grey old London. It’s starting to restore the green, the grumpy faces, and already the women are wearing their winter styles. A Pox on it. (The weather was exactly like this exactly 2 years ago today.*)

And why am I particularly miffed today? Because my special sun-hood I ordered for working outside in the sunshine arrived today. Just to rub it in. I ordered it weeks ago when, after about 7 weeks of reliable sunshine, I wasn’t getting a stroke of work done, and thought I ought to find a way of typing and tanning at the same time. As it is simply impossible for me to be inside when the sun shines outside this thing should be the answer to my prayers. Should have been. My prayers now focus on the return of the sunshine. Please, weather gods. Just one last, sustained, and truly infernal, burst before we go into winter. It would mean so much to me…

*How do I remember what the weather was like 2 years ago? Because:(a) I’m an obsessive. I have a personal and personally aggrieved recollection of what our summers were like stretching back to at least 1982. (I can recall them if anyone’s interested. Which is unlikely. I discovered recently how obsessive this is when I distributed a questionnaire on people’s attitude to sunshine, which included a question about summers past. And few could even remember what last summer was like.) (b) Two years ago today I had my first date with my last girlfriend – who cruelly dumped me back in February. And so I have a particularly acute, and self-indulgently melancholy, recollection of the day. The summer – which was bleedin lousy that year – gave up completely that day (with a few brief showings later on). So I’m stricken with foreboding as well as a general brooding sulkiness recalling what might have been. The great dreamy promise that glimmered out that day and the early days and weeks following. The fools gold of an ultimately doomed relationship. The clouds got in the way.