This summer is shaping up to be a non-event, wouldn’t you say? I mean, there’s this big old sports day thang starting next week, but aside from an abundance of pink stickers on the underground and a bit more moaning about TFL than usual, you wouldn’t know it. The rain has persisted, to the point of ricockulousness. Seriously, I’m on the verge of emigrating on the NHS (they do that, right?). And to top it all off, I seem to have misplaced my friends.
Remember, Ritzi’s gaggle of gal pals (a term which often also includes EB and a few gays) are the best. If anyone out there thinks they have a better clique kicking about, I dares ya to challenge us – we’ll win and we’ll do it with a cocktail in hand. But of course, that only works when every one is AROUND. Most, it seems, are not.
Twinkle just left forever (well, not forever, but for a year, so she’s out). The Diva’s disappeared off the face of the earth with ‘family problems’. DC doesn’t get here til the second week of August (and WHAT a week of debauchery that will be – can’t wait for the sexual tension, how about you EB?). Irish had a teeny tiny mental breakdown and ran home for the summer to have sex with her ex and film a mini series. And Flora is still MIA – I still haven’t seen her since she discovered her tripod lover. I seriously am starting to think he’s murdered her and hidden her under the patio…
Bridget, to her credit, has been around. Talking about weddings and hen parties, admittedly, but around none the less. Blondie, though less available due to her little situation (read: short arse boyfriend), is here. But she’s not moving in to Castle Cortez til August. WTF is that about? And EB is back. Back, but very busy with social engagements every weekend of course, since he’s so damn popular – which means midweek hangovers. Always useful.
Summers in London are awesome because we make them awesome. We spend our weekends in beer gardens and parks, having picnics, wandering the streets from ice cream truck to ice cream truck and sampling every form of frozen coffee drink Clapham has to offer. Last summer was great, we did all that and more. I recall dancing to Stevie Nicks at Hyde Park Calling, in a tiny playsuit and stifling heat. This year they needed pack-a-macs. The summer before, we did all that AND we had a bunch of hot hippies to rub up against since Hair was in town and all. The summer before THAT, I believe I was dating TVboy… (Cough – what a dick).
This year, what have we got? An empty promise of disgruntled army men on every street corner and a bunch of sub-standard Jesuses*. And NO SUN.
So in short, sort it out 2012. Because I am here and I am raring to go. I want a repeat of last year’s unplanned late nights on the veranda at Somerset House. I want Sundays in the park, or sunbathing on the Common. I want spontaneous trips to Brighton (avoiding any passing almost famous musicians) and weekends in the West Country. I want to go to the Open Air Theatre and not take a poncho. I want to get my fucking beach body out before I get so depressed with Seasonal Affective Disorder that I comfort eat seven months of hard work away – I’m taking St Johns Wort daily to keep a smile on my face, I haven’t done that since I was a troubled teen for cryin’ out loud.
Hey, summer of fun? Come the fuck on dear. We’re all waiting for you!
*except blondie boy lion man Jesus. He can win and if he doesn’t, I’ll give him a job singing me to sleep (amongst other things)