An Absence of Summer

Well July announced its arrival this morning. It was 2 degrees in the hills of Dulwich at dawn and I kept hoping that my bed would take me to work. It didn't. I hate winter in summerland. Like a regretful e-bay purchase, it arrives late unannounced and you wonder why you ever looked forward to it in the first place. Those of you tanning your asses off in the Northern Hemisphere must be choking on your long island iced teas right now saying "Winter? Australia? You guys know nothing". Yes I know a top of 12 degrees in the mother country is enough to cause random breakouts of nudist colonies amongst our British brothers and sisters. Whereas a top of 12 degrees in Summerland causes the average antipodean to hit his or her snooze button several more times, make a pot of tea and put on a suitable scarf. There is no widespread panic. Not a lot happens at all. And herein lays the problem. Winter in summerland is bland. There are no blizzards, ice storms, winter wonderlands or messages from the Queen. No sons of God were born in June, July or August and there is no Auld Lang Zyne equivalent for the End of Financial Year. The closest we get to a cultural event is a half yearly clearance. The light is never turned off; it is simply turned down. It's not cold enough to wear a mink but not warm enough to find a beach. We are left for three months on our couches in our seasonal waiting rooms. There is no winter in summerland, there is simply an absence of summer.

C