In university, summer lasted so long it was like a second life; entire groups of friends I only saw during summer; enough time to spend 6 weeks living somewhere else; courses abroad; holidays with friends; the inevitable trip back home; trips around the country to see where everybody grew up. Summer had it’s own soundtrack, it’s own menu (Pimms and burritos), it’s own unique rhythms and structures. Time was different, you could spend a week invested in one thing and it felt like a year, you would go out every day of the week and rest on Saturday.
Last summer was the first one I was really working. Even on my holidays to Egypt and America I was working round the clock, grabbing wi-fi where I could. I came back and went straight back into work, going out where I could, on Fridays and the odd morning off. Summer stretched on until October, but in a vague, disconnected way. I was aware of summer happening but I wasn’t really partaking in the same way: I didn’t go to Glastonbury, I didn’t spend the month working in Edinburgh, I didn’t spend hours lazing around my parents house listening to music with a hangover.
This year summer has sprung out of nowhere; it was 2015, I was working, I went on tour and then BAM. I’ve come home and it’s summer. This is the first summer since I was about 14 where I don’t have any real plans and everything feels a bit aimless. I’m a bit nonplussed about this summer – I’ve been ill for about a week, I don’t have any real plans (for work or holiday) and things always feel a bit sketchy when I’ve not confirmed a proper income over the summer, traditionally a rubbish time for private teachers like myself. I’ve also been thinking a lot about leaving London, so I’m going to treat this summer like it’s my last one in London. I have no big bold plans, I’ll just try and make the most out of each week and see what happens. And work hard. And say yes. And get involved. Those three always serve me well.