ode to an english summer

In the winter I have visions of an English summer, of prancing around in sun-dresses and Birkenstocks, drinking Pimms, and tossing my hair back without a care in the world. But the reality is a humidity that makes you look like lion, hippy sandals that rub, being so sweaty on the train it should be illegal, and I forget that I don't even like Pimms. It's like a crappier sangria.

Sometimes the humidity will break, though, and you get those really excellent, snatched summer moments, when you can smell flowers in the evening and listen to the red kites calling above, whilst drinking chilled white wine in the garden and you feel all pleasantly tired from a long walk somewhere, and the tops of your shoulders and your nose are just a bit too pink but you know it will fade to a soft brown, taking the edge off your year round paleness.

This is how I spent Saturday afternoon - the garden table broke so I just stretched out on the lawn with a bowl of sushi to pick at - my favourite magazine and a glass of iced tea (which turned into white wine as the sun set). The rose-bush in my parents garden is in full swing - I'm trying to persuade my dad he needs a peony bush - it began to feel like a good English summer, not a smidgen of humidity could be felt.