Sun’s out, buns out, amirite? Well, depends on who you are. As temperatures climb, the capital’s tribes emerge.
The lido zealot
It’s the snap of Lycra on a lightly goosepimpled buttock you hear first. And then you see them: a hundred lido zealots, perched on the edge of the pool, making sure that their sensible cossies are in place before, like synchronised seals, they leap into the depths together.
Permit them this moment. As the world burned, all the lido zealots could think about (also: tweet about) was lidos. Yes, they think it’s a substitute for a developed personality. But we all have our vices. Even if yours is less annoying.
Most likely to say: “It’s the best feeling in the world!”; something that implies a dip in a lido in Zone 1 is the same as “wild swimming”.
The WFGardener
“You’re breaking up!” you cry to your colleague as they disappear from the Zoom call for the fourth time in 10 minutes. Either it’s because the wifi doesn’t stretch that far — whatever they say — or because they’ve tipped a midday G&T onto the keyboard. Leave it — you’re getting no sense out of them today.
This year of WFH has taught us we can work anywhere — except for gardens. Not that the WFGardener isn’t trying, it’s just that the pink flamingo paddling pool/proper pizza oven/five friends they’ve invited over to “co-work” is too distracting.
Most likely to say: “Sorry for the delay in my response — I was having a nap for four hours.”
The Prosecc-hun
It’s 4pm on a sunny Tuesday and, (socially distanced) around a watermelon-print picnic blanket, four young women are pouting into a self-timer, holding plastic glasses of Freixenet aloft.
This isn’t a shoot for Boohoo.com — you’ve found the Prosecc-huns. Don’t stare. Unlike you (pallid; hayfever death wheeze), they are in their element. Also unlike you, their heatwave look is not Birkenstocks, hairy toes and a towelling poncho (you OK, mate?) but prints and platform sandals.
Most likely to say: “Why’s that old crone staring at us?”
The gym bro
Nothing, not even the sunshine, will interrupt today’s #ultimate #session. In a circle taking up the park’s prime lawn they stand, thighs akimbo, slogan vest (“eat clean, train dirty”) barely covering their vast pecs, and commence today’s punishing circuit.
Witnessing the sweat roll down their bodies and the soundtrack of ululating grunts as they swing a kettlebell, you remember how glad you are you did not start working out in lockdown.
Most likely to say: “Let’s make today’s an ICED protein shake!’
The park vampire
Blinking, dribbling, they emerge into the light. Their skin is translucent, their gait laboured, their muscles weak from lack of use. Occasionally they jab at the air in front of them with a purposeful finger, then look bemused as life continues around them. Are they… trying to “leave” the Zoom call? Oh, hun. Welcome back.
Most likely to say: “Help me!” (in a whisper)
