I am loathing August in London. I always did. Firstly, whilst the rest of Europe enjoys the peak of summer in skimpy dresses and open toe sandals, I usually catch a cold as I desperately hang on to wearing my only recently acquired summer wardrobe. Thanks to London’s August being what would be classified as deepest autumn anywhere South of Calais, I’d be better advised to wrap summer scarves around my neck and cashmere cardigans around my shoulders. In August!
Secondly, nobody is here. I am dying to kick start a few projects, get going and finally leave that bizarre state of summer hibernation. But nobody is available to meet. ‘Get back to me in September.’ ‘Call me after the school holidays.’ ‘I won’t be in town for the next three weeks.’ The same applies to our babysitter, who fled to Sweden for an extended vacation (I AM NOT jealous) and is thus not on hand to look after little L whilst I carve out my ingenious plans.
Thirdly, I can hardly walk from my house to the supermarket without being stopped three times on my way to be asked ‘Where is zee Angle/Spitalfields Market/zee Buckin’am Palace?’ by a completely lost tourist. Empty and quiet city in August? Pah! The only cure to my pain lies in the sugary product Carluccio’s has on display. Who needs a bikini body anyway?
I feel like having a bad hair day that seems to have started the day I came back from France. A very long, six-weeks-lasting bad hair day. And there is no end in sight.
But it’s not only London that is deserted. My RSS reader is drying up, too – apart from a few diehard (= equally addicted) bloggers, everybody seems to be off the radar. Sommerloch*, as the Germans would call it.
London in August is like sitting in a hole. Sporting very bad hair.
*Sommerloch (literally: summer hole) is the time of year that sees the relevant news disappear into the Silly Season.