I write one of these every year, dear reader, and you can set your calendar by any one of these posts.
Summer. Is. Here.
If you are anything close to being a regular reader of these missives, you know how much I love winter, and almost as a corollary, you know how much I hate summer. But much as I never tire of singing paeans to winter, I also never tire of hurling invective at summer.
It saps you. It saps you of energy, obviously, but it also saps you of enthusiasm, happiness, and at around two in the afternoon, of the will to live.
You think I exaggerate? Allow the prosecution to make its case.
You will notice it all around you. People around you will walk around with grim visages and pursed lips, just waiting to bite the heads off of those people who would be fool enough to engage in conversation. Children will listlessly lie around, not bothered to move a single limb, let alone engage in any sport, indoors or outdoors. There will not be a solitary cheep from the birds in the trees outside, and who can blame them? Why, the trees themselves will appear dry, withered and woebegone – and come to think of it, who can blame them either? Summer is the season of utter misery.
This is especially true if electricity boards, staying true to their reputation, curtail the supply of electricity to your house in the post meridian hours. There you are, stuck at home with the UPS bleating away like a confused sheep, with rivulets of sweat running down your back.
There’s the air-conditioner on your wall, a great hulking mass of unresponsive white. There’s the ceiling fan, whirring away obediently for the nonce, but with the imminent threat of stopping any moment now.
All you want at that moment is to be magically transported to a cooler clime.
Or under the shade of an obliging tree, with a cool breeze for moral support. Or a swimming pool, if you will. Maybe with a beer alongside for comfort. Anywhere, come to think of it, but here.
And then, just when you think things can’t get any worse, the confused sheep lets out one last, elongated bleat, and gives up the ghost. And every single person in the household sets eyes on the one hitherto operational ceiling fan in the house – which, in agonizing slow motion, completes its ultimate perambulation, and comes to a final, obdurate halt.
There is a stillness, a despair in the air at that moment that can only be felt; never described. Albert Camus was a ball of cheerfulness in comparison to that particular feeling of abject misery.
And then, to compound your misery, your brain chooses just this very moment to remind you that it is only March, just yet, and that there are at least two more months of this centre of the sun madness to go.
As I said, saps you of the will to live. The prosecution, m’lud, rests its case.
He doesn't expect the paradox to be resolved in his lifetime
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