The weather in London has been, frankly, lovely. In fact, I’m certain that anybody who lives here would stick their tongues out at us, since the past summer was by all accounts beyond tragic. Still, in spite of the fact that the sun has made at least a fleeting appearance on virtually every day since we arrived, there are only too many reminders that summer is making its way steadily toward the exit, sheepishly in these parts, perhaps all too aware of its less-than-impressive performance this year.
I love the sun. Lovelovelove it. I think I knew I had Seasonal Affective Disorder before the seasons ever had the chance to affect me in a negative way. Barefoot has always been my fashion statement. I never feel more radiant than when my hair is streaked with blonde and my shoulders are peeling just a little from forgetting to put on sunscreen a couple of days ago (I’m getting better). When the days are longer and hotter, I feel solidly more optimistic about all of it. Future, present and past just all seem more the way they should when one can go outdoors after dark in nothing more than flipflops, shorts and a tanktop.