People think I’m strange when I tell them this but I really bleddy hate summer.
This summer has been so busy – which I’m really glad about. I started my job as a No7 Advisor at the end of May. I attended The Great Estate festival with two of my lovely friends. I went to London with Dan to see Guns N’ Roses live. I swam in the sea, ate ice-cream too many times, completed 100 Happy Days on Instagram. I discovered Hubbox, got drunk on several occasions, played bingo and gained another beautiful nephew.
Those were the best parts.
I hate summer because I hate the heat. I hate that I have nothing to wear. I hate that I have to shave my legs and then fake tan them. I hate the smell of suncream and I hate the inevitable chub rub that decides to reside on the inside of my thighs when I wear a skirt with no tights. I hate the sweat that drips down my back when I wear my doubled-lined dress in work where the air con system has been broken since forever.
I hate that I had to make the heart breaking decision to put my dog to sleep.
I hate that I had to attend my Mother’s inquest which resulted in nothing but unanswered questions and an unneccessary recall of that tragic time.
Alas, I have cried a lot this summer. When Jamie and I danced around his kitchen singing Taylor Swift (the old one) songs and the takeaway driver witnessed it, I cried with laughter. When I’m driving home and any Fleetwood Mac song comes on I cry both happy and sad tears. I cried when Dan took me to work in a hire van and there were a couple of spiders travelling with us. I cried all the way to the vets that day. I cried myself to sleep after the inquest.
“Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts. I was better after I had cried, than before – more sorry, more aware of my own ingratitude, more gentle.” – Charles Dickens