I wonder what number we're one now...
This is mostly for my own benefit, and it's mostly a placeholder sort of things...
Ah, summer holidays. A perfect time to sit back, relax, and wonder why on earth you’d been wishing for the holiday to begin with. Hot, blistering sun, tremendous thunderstorms that knock the electricity out thirty seconds before they announce who’s getting voted off of ‘So You Think You Can Dance’. And at some point, you reach the point where you’ve atrophied into a great blob of a person, full of popsicles and barbeque, and you actually start wishing for the year to being properly again so that you can actually have something to do. And then you notice it’s Thursday, so you might as well write a column so that when your editor gets back from being on holiday himself, he, for once, won’t be leaving threatening messages on your telephone machine or piles of flaming dung in a brown bag by your front door. For once, I’m getting something done not only on time but early. It’s uncanny. I’m not sure I recommend it.
But anyway. Summer holiday! I hope everyone is enjoying himself or herself, and that he or she has done a better job keeping active and busy than I have. I have not done any of the stereotypical Summer Activities- I’ve not gone anywhere exotic (unless you count New Jersey, which perhaps you should; it’s terrifying), I’ve not seen any great film blockbusters (although I’ve heard many Americans discussing a film that will be out later this month called ‘Snakes on a Plane’, which I feel speaks for itself), and I’ve not managed to eat my own weight in ice cream. Yet.
I have, however, been to the seaside. Every time I go to the seaside I am surprised by a few things that, at this point, should no longer surprise me. First of all, I am always, always, surprised by sand. It gets absolutely everywhere, doesn’t it? And there’s really nothing anybody can do about it, apart from surrendering to the inevitability of resembling a cutlet.
And then there’s the whole problem of walking in the sand. Whenever I go to the seaside, I seem to be the only person who is incapable of walking properly. The other blokes I go with are skipping about with ease, miles ahead of me down the shoreline, while I, plodding along, sink further in with each step. Can one’s feet be too large for basic maneuverability in the sand?
I also always seem to forget how salty the ocean is. This is seemingly ridiculous (it’s the ocean, who forgets that it’s salty?), but when one doesn’t visit the seaside often, one forget the vast amount of salt in the water, salt that always ends up in every orifice of the human body, causing one to splutter unpleasantly. I realize that this makes me seem like a bit of an old fart, but who’s to say I’m not, in fact, an old fart?
Hmm. It seems that I’ve gone off a bit on summer holiday, haven’t I? In all honesty, it’s not as unpleasant as I’ve made it out to be. (Well, apart from New Jersey.) The seaside is particularly lovely in the evenings, as the sunset paints the clouds a light shade of pink, and when a cool breeze dances up the coastline. And where would young romantics be without their trademark warm, summer evenings? Summers are golden, and we should all enjoy getting the opportunity to kick back with a gin and tonic and listen to the cicadas and the crickets chirp, without the usual burdens of the year bearing down on us.
And with that said, I’m returning to my usual habit of procrastination.
Ah, summer holidays. A perfect time to sit back, relax, and wonder why on earth you’d been wishing for the holiday to begin with. Hot, blistering sun, tremendous thunderstorms that knock the electricity out thirty seconds before they announce who’s getting voted off of ‘So You Think You Can Dance’. And at some point, you reach the point where you’ve atrophied into a great blob of a person, full of popsicles and barbeque, and you actually start wishing for the year to being properly again so that you can actually have something to do. And then you notice it’s Thursday, so you might as well write a column so that when your editor gets back from being on holiday himself, he, for once, won’t be leaving threatening messages on your telephone machine or piles of flaming dung in a brown bag by your front door. For once, I’m getting something done not only on time but early. It’s uncanny. I’m not sure I recommend it.
But anyway. Summer holiday! I hope everyone is enjoying himself or herself, and that he or she has done a better job keeping active and busy than I have. I have not done any of the stereotypical Summer Activities- I’ve not gone anywhere exotic (unless you count New Jersey, which perhaps you should; it’s terrifying), I’ve not seen any great film blockbusters (although I’ve heard many Americans discussing a film that will be out later this month called ‘Snakes on a Plane’, which I feel speaks for itself), and I’ve not managed to eat my own weight in ice cream. Yet.
I have, however, been to the seaside. Every time I go to the seaside I am surprised by a few things that, at this point, should no longer surprise me. First of all, I am always, always, surprised by sand. It gets absolutely everywhere, doesn’t it? And there’s really nothing anybody can do about it, apart from surrendering to the inevitability of resembling a cutlet.
And then there’s the whole problem of walking in the sand. Whenever I go to the seaside, I seem to be the only person who is incapable of walking properly. The other blokes I go with are skipping about with ease, miles ahead of me down the shoreline, while I, plodding along, sink further in with each step. Can one’s feet be too large for basic maneuverability in the sand?
I also always seem to forget how salty the ocean is. This is seemingly ridiculous (it’s the ocean, who forgets that it’s salty?), but when one doesn’t visit the seaside often, one forget the vast amount of salt in the water, salt that always ends up in every orifice of the human body, causing one to splutter unpleasantly. I realize that this makes me seem like a bit of an old fart, but who’s to say I’m not, in fact, an old fart?
Hmm. It seems that I’ve gone off a bit on summer holiday, haven’t I? In all honesty, it’s not as unpleasant as I’ve made it out to be. (Well, apart from New Jersey.) The seaside is particularly lovely in the evenings, as the sunset paints the clouds a light shade of pink, and when a cool breeze dances up the coastline. And where would young romantics be without their trademark warm, summer evenings? Summers are golden, and we should all enjoy getting the opportunity to kick back with a gin and tonic and listen to the cicadas and the crickets chirp, without the usual burdens of the year bearing down on us.
And with that said, I’m returning to my usual habit of procrastination.