I don’t seem to be writing much lately, I blame it on the heat. The long warm days are getting blamed for a lot at the moment: I’m drowsy but restless, lacking oomph and concentration in equal measure. I can’t even be bothered to listen to the World Cup, I’ve sat through one full and two or three half-matches so far and although I still care who wins, at this rate I’ll be turning the radio off at half-time during the final, then snoozing through the second half.
I’m not a summer person. The colour of the leaves and the smell of the air in autumn are refreshing to the soul; winter has crispness, frost and snow, visible breath; spring smells fresh and alive, and the feeling of air on a partially exposed neck after months of scarf-wearing is wonderful. Summer is sneezing, wasps and other flying pests, the acrid smell of neighbours’ barbecues, sleepless nights, burnt skin and never having the right clothes on. I guess it’s a question of personality.
So, on the one hand I’m shocked and mildly panicked that the year is now half over when surely it was winter only a couple of weeks ago, and on the other I’m glad that we seem to be speeding towards cooler days. Because of course, once the weather’s more to my taste I’ll be organised and disciplined, I’ll write every day, finish every story I start, and submit them all in a sensible order.