Well, it finally happened. The sun, that great celestial bully, has decided to grace us with its presence, and in doing so, has turned our lives into a sort of grand, uncomfortable beach party from which there is no escape. Everything officially and feels a little brighter and smells a little different (or, in my neck of the woods, smells like Farmer Giles has decided to do a lap of the park in his oldest and most un-sanitised muck spreader).
One might think that after months of the typical British dampness, we'd welcome this solar assault with open arms, but no. It's like having a long-lost relative who you remember fondly from childhood, only to find upon their return that they've become insufferable.
The weather forecast promised sun, and like a fool, I believed it. I ventured out, not with the joy of a child on the first day of summer, but with the trepidation of a man who knows the fine line between warmth and roast. The streets were filled with people, each one seemingly less accustomed to daylight than the last, their pale skins turning various shades of lobster red under this cruel, unyielding light.
In my youth, the sun was a friend, a companion in mischief, but now, it's an enemy. It's not just the heat; it's the light. The relentless light that forces one to squint, to fumble for sunglasses that have somehow disappeared into the abyss of one's own home. The heat is one thing, but the glare? That's an assault on the senses, a reminder that perhaps we should have stayed in the cool, dark womb of winter.
And then there's the issue of shade. In Birmingham, shade is as rare as a straight answer from Sir Kier Starmer. Every bench, every tree, is claimed by those who got there first, leaving the rest of us to wander like nomads in search of a shadow. The parks, once serene, are now battlegrounds where only the quickest or the most cunning can find respite from the sun's tyranny.
I remember a time when I would bask in the sun, but now, I find myself wishing for clouds, for rain, for anything that might break this spell of light. The sun, in its infinite arrogance, seems to ignore my pleas, continuing its daily path across the sky, unbothered by the discomfort it causes.
The irony of it all is that we Britons, who complain incessantly about rain, are now bemoaning the sun. It's a national pastime, this weather whinging, but there's a certain poetry to it, a rhythm to our collective gripes. Perhaps we should learn to embrace the sun with the same begrudging acceptance we give to our less sunny days.
But for now, I'll retreat indoors, where the light is softer, the heat less oppressive, and where I can nurse my sunburn with a cup of tea, contemplating the British summer with all the joy of a man about to step into a sauna fully clothed.