The curse of summer
If there’s one thing I dread as far as writing is concerned it’s summer, especially if it’s a fine one like this year (so far at any rate). It is an indisputable fact that the best sort of weather for a writer is wet and wicked – there’s nothing else to do but sit down and write. As it is, when I get up each day and see the sun shining through the windows, I know that I’m not going to get much done. I look outside, and the grass calls: “Mow me, mow me!” The plant containers yell: “Water us, for God’s sake water us! We’re dying here!” The borders demand: “Weed us now! Weeds thrive whatever the weather, so get them out NOW!”
And then there’s WIMBLEDON! Best to regard that fortnight as a holiday. But the French Open preceded it, and the American Open is yet to come. What to do?
Oh frabjous joy! I’ve just looked up, and it’s absolutely pouring outside! Moreover, it’s Sunday, and a rest day at Wimbledon. Maybe I’ll get some writing done after all.
