I love the prospect of sunny days in the early summer: the brightness of the light, everything coming into bloom, the remaining moistness of spring adding a vital air that’s absent later in the season. But rather counterintuitively all of this also make me want to stay indoors. I’m inspired by the dynamic, thrusting nature of nature, its constructiveness and progress; time out in the sun is always time deferred, as spring cleaning continues and expands into putting together bags for charity shops, or offerings for Freecycle. I’ll just finish all these chores, I think, and then I can really enjoy the weather.
Today has so far been no exception to the rule of summer Sundays. In lieu of me going out into the sun, the washing has gone out in my place. I’ve poked at plants growing in the eaves from high-up windows, and swept out the entire kitchen. I’ve done mounds of washing-up and listened to Mary Ann Bighead failing to be dreadful on the World Service. Meanwhile, K. has put out more washing, and started to plough her way through the stacks of paperwork in the office. It also doesn’t help that I burn easily, and find high-factor sun creams pretty disgusting on the skin (although not enough not to not wear them, children.) So I’ve convinced myself to stay in until after the peak sun at 1pm; then at 2pm there was lunch; and now I’m sat here writing this.
Maybe at some point, when the sun’s starting to climb down from the sky, and our dark, cavernous rooms become even dimmer than they are now, we’ll look out of the windows and panic, and route-stroll out to Cassington or the nature reserves nearby. But for now, I’m happy just looking out at the sunny view, and making plans for cycle jaunts, barbecues and walks in fields; plans which, from their very conception, are meant to be blithely ignored.