Summer Promise

March is upon us and the bittersweet feelings that I experienced in September return. I was born for summer; the long days, balmy evenings, sound of cicadas in the still air… oh, sorry, thinking of somewhere else then for a moment…

When February gives way to March, the early signs of spring emerge. Our garden has crocuses starting to peek above the soil. So, too, are the Daffodils rising once more from their winter slumber beneath the flower beds. Soon, there will be a riot of colour in the garden where for the past six months all has been brown and bare. The lilac will flourish and cut us off from the neighbours at the bottom of the garden and by late April, the flowers will have come and gone.

I take in the springtime air and feel the sun warm on my face, despite the chill still lingering like an unwelcome guest and relish the clear blue sky that has replaced the dull, grey overcast of winter. Summer waits in the wings. Summer with its gentle warmth. Summer, that I long for. Spring is like a new marriage, so full of promise that summer is so sure to disappoint.

Because, unfortunately, this is Britain. Summer is likely to be a damp squib. We will, likely as not, have a decent May, followed by a damp June, torrential July and washed out August – all to the sound of water companies whingeing about low rainfall, droughts and hosepipe bans. Britain just doesn’t do summer. If we do get any decent days, people will be moaning about it being “too hot” and “I can’t wait for the weather to break”.

Is it any wonder I want to move somewhere where the weather suits my clothes?