British Summer 

What even is a British summer? Is it heard of? Is it a myth? Well special people, it really isn’t. The UK is currently expecting their biggest heatwave on record, with temperatures set to hit 34 degrees this week. If you are an autumn/winter lover like me, you might as well have just been teleported to the fiery pits of hell- because this is what it feels like. 

Day One- it’s 25 degrees and already you are done. The air is humid, your house is boiling but luckily for you, the air outside is cooler with a nice summer breeze. Walking long distances all at once is gonna make you wanna spray deodorant and probably change your underwear as soon as you get home but it’s actually bearable. You are grateful the sun has decided to grace you with its presence, but you are also craving autumn nights with Harry Potter and hot chocolate. People race out to beer gardens everywhere! The sun is out = beer garden weather. You are either cracking open a cold one with the boys, or you are trekking to Tesco either by foot or begging for lifts on snapchat from your one friend that drives if you can go pick up a temporary barbeque. Girls on instagram everywhere in the UK show off their bikini bodies/gym bods and if you’re anything like me, you are covering up as much as possible because I’m ginger and even with factor 50+ I burn on my nose.

Day 2- it’s 28 degrees. Enough is enough. You’ve had your beer, you’ve had the barbeque and you are sick of walking from one air conned place to another. You just wish that middle aged hairy men would put a shirt on. You wish that women could walk around topless and didn’t have to wear bras in public. The jealousy and envy is dark green with this one. You’ve started carrying water bottles with you like you’re carrying your first child. You’ve got to pop to B&M or Savers to have a cheeky spend on some £1 cooling spray for those instant scorcher moments when you can just no longer hack it. You’ve got through three cans of deodorant in what seems like two days and you are tired of spending money because of this summer sweat issue. You wish you could be that glowy model that enjoys the holiday in the Bahamas, but then you remember that sticky Britain is nothing like the Bahamas and your body isn’t anything like that model’s either. But that’s okay because the summery days full of fruity calorific cider and barbeque food has been absolutely worth it. You think, anyway. Or you doubt. Suddenly every teenager is wearing the same clothes from Primark or New Look, and everyone looks the same. The only person that doesn’t look the same is the OAP who is still wearing a coat and making you sweat in your vest top because it is just so insatiably wrong. Your hay fever is rife, pollen definitely hates you and you’ve started to have shoulders like a drumstick lolly. It’s okay though, just pop to Poundland and get yourself some aloe Vera gel and you’ll be golden by the time normal weather resumes. 

Day 3- It’s really done it now. It’s hit 30. This is prison. This is sweaty, burning, sore prison. Curries, Asda and Argos have all ran out of bedside table fans, the ice lolly aisles are basically extinct and there is no more barbeque coal anywhere. Despite having no air cons, bars and pubs are full like a year 6 leavers disco. Everyone is cranky and snappy, but for some reason everyone is still out making the most of the weather despite suffering in it. Everyone is burnt. Does anyone in Britain own suncream? Nivea clearly is not making money over here. Dogs are crying on the pavement because their incompetent owners are still walking them despite the pavement being the equivalent of Lava to the poor woofers. And your neighbour has set up his reclining lounger and old radio in his front garden and all you can hear all day is the buzz of rick astley, who you wish he would just give up (ironic isn’t it). Starbucks are making more iced macchiatos and frappes in a day than they’ve made in a year. For some reason, people think icy dairy creamy sugar is gonna hydrate them on a sunny, blazing day. Everyone is rushing out to buy paddling pools and inviting their mates over despite them not coming with instructions and you not owning a hose pipe. You have no idea how to set this up or how to fill it, but if it takes a bucket you’ll do it cause you’ve already invited about six people for a pool party with Lilo’s and wine. You’ve seen your neighbours more times in the past hour putting all your washing on the line than you have in the past two years- Doris just wishes she could “get past the disgusting heat so she can sort the garden”. Doris is also rubbing scalp protector on her husband, Ernie. Lord. 

Day 4- 31 Degrees. Work is cancelled, school is cancelled. Everyone is calling in sick. Sun stroke. Everyone either looks like they’ve been on a lads holiday to Ibiza (even if you’re 70 and a lady) or a tomato that’s been pressed to make homemade pasta sauce. There’s no inbetween. Everyone else is trying to catch up- bottles of Dove Summer Glow have never been sold so much, just for a bit of tan competition. Warnings are issued- ‘Stay Indoors and Drink Lots of Fluid’. Many have been drunk since last Thursday and probably haven’t left the beer garden. Even the wind is now hot, you are praying for rain to clear the air but you just know it’s going to be hot, sticky rain that collects along with your boob sweat and makes you feel like a gross, failing descendant from the Amazon Rainforest rather than a British person trying to get to Boots to buy Aftersun and a cheeky meal deal. Everyone is checking on their parents- “Are you okay? Did you survive the heatwave?”. You should probably water your cacti cause it’s been far too dry for Kenneth the Cacti, too. You haven’t eaten anything but bread rolls and cheap sausages in days and you are starting to feel it around your gut, a long with the cider bloat and alcoholic digestive system you’ve acquired. You’re taking six showers a day and your hair is as dry as your chat up lines, but it’s okay because it’s salty and ‘beachy’. You’ve started to peel like a kiddie satsuma and it’s stinging like an absolute bitch on Christmas. But it’s all alright, because your apple weather app says it will go back down to 21 after the storm on Wednesday. (Hurray, praise the lords. Bring out the vodka.) 

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