It’s September, and in my book that means it’s autumn.
I don’t care if it’s ‘still quite nice’ where you are, or how hopeful you are for an ‘Indian Summer’ (LOL), it’s September, it’s autumn; BYE BYE polyester dresses and plastic, sweaty sandals, HELLO big slouchy cardigans with sleeves I can twiddle between my fingers, HELLO big stompy boots that go with everything and HELLO second serving of pie.
Sweat stains, shiny skin, frizzy hair, heat rash, sun burn, hayfever, feeling fat, feeling pale, being wobbly and just generally being uncomfortable are the hallmarks of summer, none of which, incidentally, are ever apparent in summer-centric campaigns featuring laughing women frolicking with bees in fields of flowers (fucking bees, that’s another one. BUGS IN GENERAL).
The reality is that off-camera these women are trying to surreptitiously air their moist armpits whilst slathering their hair in frizz-ease and attempting to slap sun lotion on that bit of their back they can’t reach whilst lamenting ‘FUCK IT’S JUST SO FUCKING HOT’ and then flapping their hands around their face in a ridiculous and futile attempt to cool down.
And as if on cue, and to reinforce this opinion, my housemate has literally just come in to the room shouting ‘OH GOD, FEEL MY BACK. I’M SO SWEATY. FEEL ME”, because today it’s 25c.
And I’m pissed off: only two days ago I woke up to a cool nip in the air and got excited because I thought this might mark the beginning of actually being able to sleep comfortably at night, and having fat-ass roast dinners instead of barbecues and their never-ending stream of salad and cous cous.
I thought that PIE SEASON was finally upon us, and subsequently the pie-consumption requirements necessitated by laws of evolution. That it was time for mulled wine and cider and whatever-the-hell-is lying around, instead of Pimm’s and Sangria, which is corroding my insides and making my teeth feel funny. That it was time to stop pretending like I give a damn about my chunky thighs and torturing myself with mind-bogglingly bizarre pilates classes. That I might enjoy a full day of makeup, and not find it all pooling around my chin come lunchtime.
I thought it might be time to crack out the knitwear, and to plan all the awesome social events that only happen in the latter months of the year – Halloween parties, bonfire night drinks, Christmas get-togethers, MY BIRTHDAY (ahem) – to make up for the dearth of social shindigs over the summer (what’s that? Everyone is going on holiday apart from you, because you’re so skint? How about ANOTHER BARBECUE to fill the void?).
But no. Even though it’s September, it’s still decidedly summer. My house looks like a set from Signs with half-drunk glasses of water on every available surface and I have a heat rash on my chunky thighs.
So roll on autumn, where I can disguise my love of pies with chunky jumpers, and my hands aren’t sticky from feeling my housemate’s sweaty back.