The first hot day and we are out. OUT out, shoulders out, emotions out, feet out, toes chucked into the fountain as if they’re making a wish, Cornettos, morning beer, the canal suddenly Europe, the bit outside Leon spread thickly with bodies, stoned-seeming businessmen with their jackets puddled beside them, and from somewhere people have found real paper books to read and £4 for coffee with ice in it. We are the Brits of summer, and we are claiming our single week in the sun.
We are the women who started exfoliating our shins six days ago, for the bronzing gel to take, giving the illusion of honeymoons and so having been loved; the women who have whole conversations in our heads about the semiotics of a sandal. We are the men who refuse to acknowledge anything above 10C, insisting not only on an all-weather jumper, but a small woollen hat, too. We are the call-centre workers who lie on narrow walls beside A-roads with our shirts pulled up and bellies reddening. We are the teenagers who colonise a park with music trickling from our phones and a spreadsheet of flirtations to be filled before evening. We are the girls who have embraced “festival fashion” as if it were mindfulness or Christianity, every single accessory we wear problematic in its own way, our breath stale with coconut water, our fingernails already compacted with glittering mud. We are the men of the offices, of important, pacing phone calls, and the street becomes our boardroom and passersby our interns.
We are the contents of an inner-city pub, squeezed on to its patio and laughing about the internet. We are the people who lose whole grab bags of Walkers down our cleavages, our feet black-soled in flip-flops and slow cooked by evening. We smell of meat. We are the livid complainers, the milk-white milk-toothed stay-insiders with skin that turns to crackling at midday, the tea drinkers, the many. We are the body-hair warriors, the ones who see politics in dappled sunshine. We are the WhatsApp groups that talk exclusively in weather emojis, and the family chat groups that spend almost 72 hours bickering over who will bring sausages to the barbecue. We are the flat-earthers who insist layers and hot drinks are the scientific way to keep cool, and sweat pours off us like our tap is broken, and we will continue to email you links to prove we’re right all the way up until autumn, despite having died from exhaustion in June.
We are the parents of toddlers, and we carry whole economies on our backs – two kinds of sun cream, light snacks, water, spare shorts, spare cardie, alternative mode of transport should the trains overheat, a muslin, and the ripe potential for divorce slung low in a bumbag. We are the flustered female gaze, suddenly objectifying builders, noticing the fluid line of a bicep in Tesco and having to detour to the chilled aisle. We are cats, we are beasts, we become nature itself when it’s warm enough to have lunch outside, and we’d forgotten this feeling, of wild insane comfort. We are out of school on time and gathering round the bench by the off-licence with our shirts tied in a bow and our tongues stained Calippo orange screaming at wasps. We are going round the room, expressing disbelief at the fact it was snowing only weeks ago. We are the organisers, vacuum packing our jumpers with exhilarating judgment of every friend still struggling with seasonal dressing. We are chainsmoking outside hospitals, our heads angled towards the sun, suddenly gorgeous.
We are the summoaners, the ones who are racist against summer and all its itches and rashes and insistence on joy. The ones who will stay inside until all this silliness is over, and if forced to go out, will provide a list of complaints including but not confined to: humidity, other people, the right thing to drink, memories of a bad holiday, and death. We are the people who invite you for a “picnic”, except it’s not that is it? It’s £175 laid out on a tartan blanket, designed to satisfy only Instagram. We are the over-deodorised, the stinking, the hundred summer fragrances distilled into one overwhelming smell of hot vanilla. We are the thousands who have been waiting for something, anything to drag us away from a news cycle that seems to have human-centipeded itself, and sunshine will do. We are the couples who are basically shagging in front of you, my hand is literally making small circles on her wrist, and yes I know you’re trying to say something about, what was it again, the royal baby? Was it that? But there’s this HEAT and she keeps looking at me, and everybody’s wearing these strappy dresses, so.
We are the 80-year-olds on benches with our skirts rolled up, we’re the secret thinkers working on our allotments with a glazed sort of glee, we are the professional decanters, with our vodka and fruit, and big thing of Sprite. We are the Brits of summer, and we’ve earned it.
One more thing…
Those who have been unable to look away from New York’s ‘killer nanny’ trial found some resolution last week when Yoselyn Ortega was found guilty of four counts of murder. The whole awful thing spoke to our primal fears about loss, trust and innocence. And even though it’s over, once you’ve heard the details, it’s never really over.
European nationals in the UK will find a post-Brexit registration scheme ‘as easy to use as setting up an online account at LK Bennett’, said Amber Rudd. Which was one of those brilliantly telling revelations of what a politician thinks will be relatable. Fish and chips, football, a pint of beer, and… an online LK Bennett account.
I have so enjoyed seeing the photos of Melania Trump smiling with Barack Obama, looking happier at a funeral (Barbara Bush’s) than she was at her husband’s inauguration. As Westworld returns, could she be becoming sentient? Is Melania our greatest hope?
Email Eva at e.wiseman@observer.co.ukor follow her on Twitter @EvaWiseman
