‘He stood beside a cottage lone

and listened to a lute,

one summer’s eve, when the breeze was gone,

and the nightingale was mute.’

 — Thomas K Hervey,

The Devil’s Progress

Summer arrives earlier and earlier every year, and this year it has already aggressively befallen us, hasn’t it? I’ll admit now, as I do every year, that I’m not a summer person, one of those people who get peppy with the extended hours of daylight and whatnot. Bah, humbug, I say. I don’t care if you call me the Scrooge of Summer. I hate the heat; especially when it’s as oppressive as it is this year. It makes me feel like jumping through a window. Problem is, though: sapped as I am, I can’t find the energy to work up a head of steam to aim for the nearest window and hurl myself out of it.

I look in bewilderment at the people who pump their fists in the air when it’s so hot and miserable outside that taking a few steps will make you feel like fainting, and I wonder, Why? These people, trailing the scent of the cocoa butter in their sun block, will trip over themselves to find something to do, some party to attend, rather than do the logical thing: keep their asses quiet and at home. White parties, why? I don’t get it. Who has the energy to even stand in front of their closet and contemplate sartorial choices when it’s this bloody hot? This time of year has a stultifying effect on my brain, practically turning it into oatmeal, and making me incapable of formulating intelligible thoughts. There’s nothing like the Jamaican summer heat to make me feel like a loser. Not to mention, awaken my latent ADD, which really only surfaces at this time of year. (Already, since sitting down to write this, I’ve got up to make a glass of lemonade, change my bed sheets, do a bit of filing, and organise my lingerie drawer. Full disclosure, though: we’re in the throes of a power cut that seems to be shaping up to be a long haul — come on, JPS, really? Really? On what must surely be the hottest day of the year so far? I swear it’s about seven billion degrees Fahrenheit out — so I’m even more wretched and distracted than ever.)

When I was a student, I know I lived, absolutely lived, for summer. But maybe that was because school was a less desirable option, or perhaps it was simply the illusion of complete freedom that summer seemed to offer. I say illusion because wasn’t that what it was? Sure, summer was jam-packed with activities. There were picnics and church outings, fetes and day parties, sleepovers at the courtesy cousins, camps, and overseas trips to contemplate before September cycled back around. Then there was also, as you got older, the annoying sting of chlorine in your eyes, the sickening smell of mangoes rotting on the ground, and, well, the sex on the beach (not the drink) with the guy who never called again.

Oops, or was that just me?

These days, the most I hope for at summertime, since writing feels like endeavour as complicated as brain surgery, are really good books, summer TV series and movies to get through the torture. I’m reading Absolution by Patrick Flanery, which will definitely be one of my picks for best summer reads this year. It’s set in contemporary South Africa and is a challenge because there are many stories woven together but which take a long time for it to become obvious just how they are. Which is a good way to keep my brain from completely turning to mush before the season ends. I’ll see The Avengers at some point, when the crowds have thinned. And the TV show I’m looking forward to, weirdly, is the next generation of Dallas, which is due to start this week on TNT. Weird because the last time I was fanatically obsessed with Dallas was the summer of 1980, when the world waited with bated breath to find out ‘Who Shot JR?’ Remember that? Remember the T-shirts, the merchandising, the international bookies, the big TIME magazine cover, the hype?

I’m under no illusion that this new iteration of Dallas is going to sweep me away as the original series did –the first glimpses reveal a Southfork that’s too glossy, too slick, too much, unlike that of the old series with its yellowing, oppressive ranch that underscored how it was possible for rich people to be trapped there. All poor Sue Ellen could do was tipple morning, noon and night, after all, to escape the claustrophobia of a reality, all of her own making, which was that despite the affluence she was nothing but a designer label-wearing prisoner.

This is exactly the kind of mirror summer holds up to you when you’ve reached a certain age, bringing into sharp focus how it all falls apart. More than any other season, I believe, summer is synonymous with being young, having time on your hands. Maybe it’s not so much the summertime I’ve come to hate as much as it is the realisation that I’m not young anymore. Back in the day, summer had an elegiac quality to it, with possibilities stretching out endlessly on the back of a sweet and sudden summer breeze. Anything could happen, and, most likely, would. Anything you wanted to do you could. And if you didn’t get it done then, there was next summer for you to pick up from where you left off and do it all over again. Each summer that passes these days, it seems only to highlight the missed opportunities that will never return. What I know now that I didn’t know then is that nothing lasts forever. Nothing is promised to anyone.

My mother died on a warm summer evening, six years ago. June 19, 2006. Maybe this was when summer began leaving a bad aftertaste in my mouth. That vague romanticism of the summertime abandoned me. Sadly, whenever that time of year rolls around now, all I can think about is what it means to be a grown-up.