Last Thursday evening my parents came over for dinner. We took a ride on the Emirates Cable Car over the Thames and it was so hot (80+ degrees), my mum was convinced she was getting burnt during the ten-minute ride. We ate ice creams, had a barbecue in the garden and sat out until gone 10pm sipping Prosecco, the ultimate summer accessory. Then on Friday, somebody flicked a switch and turned on autumn. Is that really it? Tugging my scarf round my neck this morning, it appears so…
The thing is, it’s all well and good having a great summer but then it seems even crueller when it’s suddenly ripped from under you with no notice at all. I expected a tapering off of the sunshine, a subtle shift in temperatures. But no. What we got was an endless day of sunshine followed by an endless weekend of rain and now it’s jumper time, which is clearly less exciting than Hammer time in case you were wondering.
And to be honest, I feel bereft, almost bereaved because I’d gotten used to sunshine turning up every day and had positively welcomed it into my life. Granted, it was odd at first as I wasn’t in Spain so I was unsure what the persistent golden orb in the sky was. But then I got used to wearing minimal clothing, my washing basket contained zero socks and every day when I opened my front door warm air wrapped itself around me, reassured me, LOVED ME.
I feel no love with this scissoring wind it’s been replaced by. The swirling chill rushing up my road this morning didn’t kiss me with any particular passion. Plus, I had to wear a jacket this morning – it’s so alien. I’m grudgingly having to admit though that this is the return to normality – now we have to stop living like our Mediterranean cousins and start carrying brollies again, stopping for a hot chocolate instead of an cooling Aperol. No more dangling flip-flops off our toes, no more cooling Peronis by the river, no more al fresco dining till the wee small hours. Britain, do not adjust your sets. Normal autumnal service has resumed.