The Prodigal Sun

Welcome back, summer! God how I’ve missed you…I think…although, you do seem a little hotter than usual. And was it always this…sticky?

  Every year, the exact same phenomenon. You embrace the sunshine and bask in all its lustrous glory…for about ten minutes. And then you realise how much you hate the sun. And how ill-equipped your pale Irish body is to deal with its murderous beams.

  Let’s start with problem number one. Although you have lamented the winter blues, you have also somewhat relished the cosiness and relaxed nature of it all. Translation: Little to no shaving. All of a sudden, summer is upon us and a monthly (or bi-annual?!) chore has become a weekly one and feelings of resentment begin to bubble.

  Black tights are so forgiving but they must be forsaken in this unrelenting heat. You briefly consider adopting a new feminist stance on the matter; after all, bodily hair is au natural and natural can only mean feminine and beautiful, right? Maybe, but you’re not yet brave enough to pull a Julia Roberts and go the whole hog. Literally.

  Whether you’re a fake tan fan or a tinted moisturiser enthusiast, so much extra care now has to be taken post-shower for fear of resembling Wednesday Adams at the beach.

  And what is with all the flesh? ‘Tis the season for lighter layers but when did that constitute bras and shorter than short-shorts? Evidently these are the only options available to females between the ages of 10 and 30.

  Should we all look to Jessica Simpson and the Dukes of Hazzard for inspiration? Is white trash the new black?

  Furthermore, there is the inevitability of the almighty thigh chafe. I read somewhere once that there is a general rule for wearing a miniskirt: if your thighs rub together of their own accord, don’t wear a miniskirt.

  First of all, of course I don’t have a thigh gap! Second of all, I don’t want to wear your stupid ass-skimming skirt anyway Topshop because in this heat, I’ll be going through Sudocrem by the bucketload.

  Simply put, it is much harder to look your best in the dreaded humidity. In winter, you can wrap up in adorable earmuffs and look all kinds of accessory chic. In summer, THERE IS NO PLACE FOR ACCESSORIES. You can barely wear rings without swelling up like a pregnant woman and requiring some soap and water action.

  You can also kiss goodbye to having decent hair; even if you manage to endure the blistering heat of a hair straightener, all efforts become futile when you eventually slick it up into a more tolerable updo. The sun does not care for your pretty hairstyle.

  Forgive me if you detect a note of irritation; I have not slept a solid sleep since the bedroom window was opened. The once beloved duvet has now become an instrument of suffocation and all human contact is being kept to an absolute minimum.

PS. All these magazines would want to stop harping on about summer style; I am channelling beached whale until further notice.