The pros and cons of the two main seasons start mounting quite readily whenever the subject comes up – the old Summer vs. Winter debate. This is, of course, totally discounting the fact that one person in every million dares to suggest that maybe autumn is their favourite season due to the colour of falling leaves and other such fluff. Yes, autumn leaves are awesome. Take a photo. Write a blog about it. But summer is where it’s at.
What about winter? Well… it brings picturesque scenery, snow and the rugby season. It can also be a cruel bugger.
It often has the habit of tricking South Canterbury lambs into thinking its safe to come into the world before blasting them with snow, rain and freezing southerly winds. And when things like that happen, my girlfriend gets sad. Her being sad makes me sad. I bloody hate being sad.
Winter is like a cold slap in the face when you leave the house in the morning. It’s like the annoying amount of junk mail that stretches the maximum capacity of your letterbox, or the seemingly-cute neighbour’s cat that sneaks in and pisses in your bedroom. You don’t need it and you have no idea why it happens at all.
Winter is a sadistic old bastard who laughs at you when it takes ages, in fact slightly longer than the time it takes to drive to work, for the windows in your mid-90’s model automobile to completely de-mist, or when you wake in the middle of the night busting for a pee and can’t decide whether it’s worth the trouble to leave the bed, brave the cold and return to find it has since got cold during your sleep-pit-stop. Winter can be a dick.
But this past weekend the sun shrugged off the clouds, hung out for the day and showed us why summer reigns supreme in most people’s books. It was a weekend that, almost instantly, had people smiling, laughing and secretly hoping that this was a sign that winter had gone back to whatever dark, dark place it comes from.
Strange things start happening this time of year. People are caught unaware in freshly-adorned singlets and, forgetting the lesson they learnt 12 months ago, end up with limbs turning various shades of pink – and then spend the rest of the summer trying to rid themselves of their newly-acquired natural “skin singlet” (or “skinglet”). Previously-freezing bodies of water start looking almost tempting enough for a mean-as “Mangere”, with all thoughts shattered as soon as toes are dipped. Board shorts are, all of a sudden, donned proudly (despite the fact that many wearers are nowhere near a beach), last season’s jandals are dug out and many, many cold beverages begin, for the first time in months, being consumed OUTSIDE the house until and/or during dinner.
Bring on summer I say.