Ys are here again
We could stroll contentedly to work in our summer suits, (which would eventually become worn with overuse, instead of what currently happens, which is they can last for decades on account of only being worn the equivalent of one week a year). We could make plans for a picnic, or a barbecue but without getting in extra chairs to cater to guests when the inevitable thunderstorm drives everyone indoors. We would smile more, we would laugh more, levels of depression would drop, our mental attitude would become more positive.
We may now be aware of the damage the sun can do to our skin – “no sh*t, Sherlock” – but when you consider what its absence can do to our psyche, I’ll take my chances with sunburn.
So, why does the sun matter so much to us? It seems simple: it makes us feel warm, which loosens the muscles in our necks and allows our shoulders to slump down. It feels pleasant on our face. It opens up the wider world to us, allowing us to wander through nature without the need of a Goretex prophylactic. The coastline of the west of Scotland is one of the most beautiful places in the world, but I keep thinking of how much more magical it would be on a warm summer’s day.
I’m sure there are many people who have experienced such a harmonious union of weather and location, it’s just that I’m not one of them. There have been days during our dark, laborious, litany of sodden Scottish summers that I’ve even considered erecting a Wicker Man in the hope that the immolation of a virgin – once successfully located, of course – might be a sacrifice worth considering for the common good of our rain-soaked nation. unfortunately, I do believe there are now certain health and safety regulations that severely restrict such a practice.
So, what is to be done? If we can’t actually indulge in human sacrifice in a bid to bring back the golden summer of 1976, what is a sun-starved chap to do? Well, we are all taking more holidays and that, in turn, generates different problems.
(Since when did Edinburgh Airport successfully hoodwink the powers-that-be and swipe all the best European destinations? once a trip to Nice meant rising at a respectable hour, ordering a cab and, hey presto, 15 minutes later I was loitering around the check-in desk at Glasgow Airport.
Now it means getting up at 2:30am, driving more than half way across the country, sticking the car in a rip-off car park if you want to be able to walk to the terminal or a slightly less rip-off but not exactly cheap car park, which involves that nail-biting wait for a pick-up bus. The anxiety alone has got to be priced at £50 as you are left nervously thinking: “Where is the sodding bus? Am I going to ever make this flight?” I remember when Edinburgh Airport was the equivalent of a Portakabin, and I’d like Glasgow’s dominance and normal service resumed as soon as possible.)
Yet there remains something noble, impenetrable and resilient about the Scots’ hopes for summer. They are the numinous equivalent of the garden gnome – you may have seen the recent Ikea adverts in which they are being killed off but keep on coming in wave after wave. Well, that is our hopes, unbowed, unbeaten, despite wave after wave of summer storms and dark days of single digit temperatures.
I read yesterday that the Chelsea Flower Show allowed the return of the gnome for the first time in a century; I’m taking that as a sign and looking to the skies in hope of warm and summer sun. however, should I prove prophetic, lotion will, in future, be diligently applied.