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Stoned

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That’s the longest day done with for another year. It’s now just a steady downhill slide back into the murky depths of winter.

Before you know it, it’ll be dark when you drive to work, dark when you get home from work, and the only natural light you’ll see will be out of the office window. Or when you struggle outside in the wind and rain at the weekend to put the pizza boxes in the dustbin.

Ancient civilizations have long celebrated the summer solstice, which means they must have been pretty damn clever, as I’m pretty sure they didn’t have calendars on smartphones in those days. Or Wikipedia.

As always, I celebrated the dawning of this annual occasion by dancing naked around some ancient stones. The staff at the Garden Centre weren’t all that impressed to find me in their Rockery section to be honest, especially at they didn’t open unit 9am. Come to think of it, stopping to ask them what time the cafe would be open mid way through a particularly fine “Ommmm” probably didn’t help much either. After all that chanting, I was more than ready for a large cappuccino, I can tell you.

Still, after I’d promised that it wouldn’t happen again for at least another 364 days, I left with a bag of stone chippings, so at least now I can build my own miniature Stonehenge in the back garden next year. The sparrows aren’t nearly as critical of my dance moves.

Whilst, to some at least, this heralds the actual start of summer, I find myself rather saddened that we’re already beginning the slow descent back into the gloomily short days and seemingly endless nights of winter, punctuated only by occasional happy moments of complaining about how the sun dazzles you when it’s actually visible, as it’s so low on the horizon.

Having said that, I’m currently woken up at 4.30am by our feathered friends greeting the dawn in the only way they know how – by shouting at each other from different trees, or the telephone cable outside my 100 year old, very thin, windows. Someone who speaks bird should explain to them that if they just stood next to each other, it would be a whole lot easier, and quieter.

And then there’s the fact that, should it happen to be a miserable, rainy day (which I know happens ever so infrequently around here), you’ve just got a whole unwelcome load of extra hours to stare forlornly out of the window, and complain about how your tomato plants are going mouldy. Or that you really need to cut the lawn, but can’t. Again.

Anyway, having failed to get in the necessary amount of Primal Screaming yesterday, I need to get a few more choruses of “Waaaaagh!!!!” in before the neighbours call the RSPCA to report an injured cat. It would be a shame to waste my screech quota after I’ve waited all year, wouldn’t it?

Have a good, many sunlit hours filled, weekend.

If you can.

This post first appeared in my 'Thank grumpy it's Friday' column in the North West Evening Mail on Friday 22nd June 2012. This is the unedited version - you can view the printed/online version here: where it was retitled 'Downhill slide to depths of winter' which makes me sound like a really miserable sod. To be fair to them, that is actually true. It'd be grand to see some comments, so please go there and leave one. A nice one, if you like. Or a bad one. It's a democracy, after all.)

(The alphabetised ramble through my CD collection is onto the letter K, and Keane's "Under The Iron Sea".)
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