(It's bin day so O has followed me into the cupboard to ensure I know how miserable he is)
I simultaneously hold the following 3 thoughts in my head all summer long:
- I will never work again and am worthless and unemployable what am I doing with my life
- This work I am doing is so boring I think I might die. Can a person die from copywriting? I am pretty sure that is about to happen here what am I doing with my life
- I have some amazing ideas and come September will set the world on fire (no, not now. There are still 4 episodes of Drag Race I haven’t seen).
Some catastrophic scheduling/transport/logistical fuck up comes and sits in the middle of my otherwise well-laid plans. Many, many, many hours and brain cells are lost trying to find a workaround. THERE IS NO WORKAROUND. Accept the fuck up, eventually.
I start scratching the dry skin on my left foot on 30 June and do not stop until 1 September. By then, my left foot ressembles something my stepmother would have had to collect from the special sealed box at the medical photographic library she used to visit when she worked in medical publishing.
Food & Beverages
I become mutinously resistant to cooking and dine on salty snacks, takeaway or cheese for 2 months, then wonder why I am so fat come September. The good pizza places all shut up for the summer so I roam the streets ever more angrily looking for someone who can produce a thin, quite burnt, crust (in vain). Every night feels, on some level, like the weekend, therefore every night it is time for drinking. Weird drinks become desirable/acceptable. White port. Cider. Some kind of sketchy homemade mojito full of greenfly-ridden mint. Vermouth. Sticky bottles of whatthefuck from the back of the cupboard.
My family no longer require me to entertain them. Their preferred option is that I should make absolutely no attempts whatsoever to entertain them, but rather leave them well alone (apart from providing the building blocks of sandwiches and ensuring the broadband works smoothly). Really, there is little to complain about, and yet, and yet. The energy of the house changes when it is full of other people. There they are, lying around, eating, breathing, talking to internet strangers about their joint killing strategies, abandoning banana peels in horrific places and leaving all the lights on. Within days I develop a violent desperation to be alone. I moan, both online and IRL that “I can’t WORK with them in the house” and stare balefully at the tidelines of detritus that mark their movements around the house. Whenever anyone asks me where something is, I snap, viciously, then retreat to the basement to sit in companionable silence with my friend the washing machine.
As soon as they leave and the house is empty, for a couple of days, I find myself entirely unable to concentrate on anything other than watching back to back episodes of Drag Race. After approx 1.8 days, I begin to miss them and their waves of detritus, the musky Axe Carbon-hormone bouquet and surly one-word conversations and their appearance in the kitchen still wearing headphones and watching YouTube videos as they ask what's for lunch AS IF I AM THEIR HOLIDAY CONCIERGE DAMMIT.
Every day is like Sunday, but old style Sunday, a 1970s Sunday, like back when I was little, when even the dust motes seemed to move more slowly. All the shops shut for a month. No one around but cats, the very elderly and career drunks.
Dribbling out of one ear verrrry verrrrry slowly.
What happens to you every summer?