Disliking Summer is a lot like being a death eater. Allow me to elaborate.
I kind of hate Summer. I try to keep this fact to myself however because, despite being someone not at all afraid to pose an unpopular opinion, and who's pathological inability to read a room has lead me to do so frequently and with disastrous consequences, I am well aware that stating a distaste for the warmer months of the year is, in the eyes of many, a most heinous form of blasphemy.
In fact, a less than joyful inclination towards the months from May to August is something that in most office settings must not be spoken of. It is the opinion that shall not be named. Like Voldemort, the aghast expressions which greet such an announcement demonstrate the extent to which the sun-starved British workforce truly believe that to question the enjoyability of Summer is to summon something actually evil. It's tempting fate. By saying you don't like how hot it is you are asking for it to rain solidly for three months. You're inviting Voldemort to lay waste to my bank holiday BBQ you selfish cow.
That's the face people make when I day I don't like Summer. The Voldemort BBQ face.
But it's true. Summer sucks, in many ways. My commuter train becomes a kind of dystopian high speed steam spa, and all my favourite woolly clothing items (jumpers! Scarves! Oh how do I LOVE an oversized waffle knit snood! Let me count the ways. . .) are 100% off limits. And makeup! Deep rusty eye shadows and berry lips look totally unhinged when they're melting off your chin by 3pm. In their place I am offered pastel colours - a trend which is proffered as new and exciting every single year and which I absolutely refuse to partake of ever amen - floral prints (no, 100 times no) and all manner of strappy items with awkward cutout panels which I presume some women somewhere like although I have never once met any.
No. Summer sucks. And it's nearly over now. I can almost smell the boyfriend knits and thigh high suede on the horizon. Bring it on. Summer can shove it.