The recent sunshine has been lovely after all that terrible rain and here at Little Lucy Willow we are already preparing for summer with some gorgeous children’s nightwear. However, I have to admit, I’m more ‘woman of winter’ than ‘summer siren’. To me the heat just means I must depart with my beloved woolies and bare my arms – to the elbow at least.
I dread the evenings getting lighter, the optimistic weather stories in the paper and those photographs of the world and his wife on Brighton beach when the mercury touches 10. When this happens it truly is time to dust off last year’s t-shirts and get a good pedicure.
Then comes the dreaded rigmarole of trying on those long forgotten garments. As I stand in front of the mirror, my hairy white legs poking out of the three-quarter length trousers I thought were bob on last year, my enthusiasm wanes a little more. It just doesn’t feel right. The bingo wings, the back fat, the love handles and that spare tyre, out and about for all the world to see.
I check the calendar to see how long I must endure this state of semi-nakedness and ponder why so many people are obsessed with emigrating to Australia. I decide the root of my anti-summer stance is that I don’t have enough time get to used to the sun – and my summer wardrobe – before it’s all over. I am determined not to miss out on all the fun this year. There’s only one thing for it. I head to the place which is so far out of my comfort zone it’s up there with audience participation. The local swimming pool. As sure as eggs is eggs I bump into my husband’s friend in the changing room and am forced to chat as our children compare cossies.
It’s painful but not as bad as having to make my grand entrance into the packed pool, where my daughter’s school friends and their grandads happen to be hanging out. It’s not pleasant but after half an hour I feel much more comfortable and as I’d hoped, the prospect of putting on those three-quarter length trousers and a vest top suddenly seems quite appealing.
Once I have scrambled out of the pool (with one bum cheek hanging out of my swimming costume, unfortunately), I am ready to embrace the summer and my wool-less wardrobe. I’d feel over-dressed in a pair of hotpants after that. At this rate I’ll soon be heckling comedians and doing the Lambada with the red-coats at Butlins. Maybe.