I live at the beach. It is summer. Two things that go sand in sand (could not resist the opportunity for that really bad joke).
Summer begins. It’s 18C. Jandals go on. Jandals go on, singlets go on.
21C hits. Woman pushing baby in buggy complains about heat. I laugh to myself, knowing full well that this aint hot. People just love to complain.
24C heat. Singlets come off. Sunburn goes on. We’ve already forgotten that there’s no ozone layer to protect us. Topless men parade their flexed biceps as they stroll down the street. Cellulite-free teenage girls waltz around in their two piece bikinis. I want to be 17 again.
Everyone is happy in minimal attire. Youth cruise in their cars. Shirts off. Music on. Windows down. Toot! Toot! Their necks crane as they check out the hotties walking past. It now appears to be OK to yell out the car window to passers-by, become a mobile DJ, and obviously perve.
Sleepy beach settlements quadruple their populations. Alcohol is consumed. Romances blossom. Amping concerts every other day. Kids walk around with ice cream beards. Sandy swimwear dries on the balcony every night. Lazy evening BBQ’s with sausages, and salads that no-one really eats. It’s all about the meat, sauce and bread.
Summer, the stuff dreams and Sports Illustrated calendars are made of. The season that makes winter, spring and autumn jealous. That time of year that you can get away with anything, because you can blame it on being summer. Let’s face it, summer rocks!