I hate summer
Not clickbait, I just really don't like summer
Illustration by Lucy Innes Williams
The desperate desire to be cool yet covered by your duvet at night, a war you will never win.
The fetid, sweet stench of the food waste bins kicking up on collection day.
Blisters bursting as a result of sweating in strappy shoes which reveal your chipped nail polish and crusty heels to the world.
Having to shave your legs every damn day.
Walking into spider webs and feeling the tickle of tiny legs scurrying across you for the rest of the day.
The constant fear that the musty scent you can smell on the tube is emanating from you.
Trying and failing to find the perfect pair of denim shorts which don’t cut off the circulation to your thighs.
Speaking of thighs - THE CHAFING.
The expectation to fill your weekends with beach trips, ice creams in the park, strawberry picking and swimming pool visits.
The similar expectation to be social at what you now consider to be ungodly hours (past 9pm).
Letting your hair dry naturally because it’s too damn hot to use heat and waking up looking like Hagrid got a bad blowout.
Surpassing the stage of glow which looks healthy and fresh and instead looking like you touched up your makeup with chip fat.
Feeling bad about being cloistered at home when you ‘should be out enjoying the sunshine!’
Panicking about having adequate levels of sun protection when you step foot outside your door (Did I bring a hat? Sun cream? Water? A noose?)
A deluge of shirtless men parading through town, showcasing their poorly drawn football tattoos and spotty, hairy flesh.
Anticipating unwanted attention when you bare your legs, chest, arms, ankles - any flesh will do when it comes to creeps.
Children. Everywhere. Invading your once peaceful haunts with their noise and mess. (I am fully aware of my own hypocrisy, I assure you).
It being over before you really had a chance to embrace it.