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Jayne Dawson: The height of summer
I like August, which is contrary of me, since it's deep into summer territory and I am to summer what Demi Moore is to ageing gracefully.
Still, I do like it. Even though I don't actually enjoy all the activities that August traditionally entails – present downpours excepted.
Just the idea of travelling abroad for sunbathing purposes makes me turn paler, a feat indeed since I am already a glacial bluey-white, the kind of white normally only seen on long-term prisoners of Celtic extraction. Imagine a Scottish Dracula, and that's the kind of skin shade with which nature blessed me.
And even the idea of sitting on a beach makes me feel ill. The sun, the sand, the cellulite – what's to enjoy?
Beach holidays are simultaneously exhausting and boring, a state of mind and body I can achieve with a bout of housework, so no need to abandon the home and seek out a stretch of sand.
I have never known a moment's relaxation on a beach: every second is filled with the application of sun cream, the scraping off of sand, the moving of sun umbrellas and windbreaks and towels to achieve optimum position, the search for water, coffee, sunglasses, the right page in the book, and finally the children. It's actually more fun cleaning the oven.
And, oh my, the clothes. Summer fashion so tragically encapsulates all that is wrong with June, July and August. It's all coloured and patterned and frilly and flouncy. It's all hippy and boho. It's as if the inhabitants of Hebden Bridge had suddenly escaped from their style-free town and taken over the world. Riotous, garish garments stretch to the horizon, and over so many challenging body shapes.
And yet, despite all that, August is a great month, because it's hard to take it seriously. August is the summer equivalent of December, a time when people's minds are mostly elsewhere.
If December is a bit like one long Friday night with everybody doing their best to be sociable, then August is like a Friday afternoon, with everybody doing their best to finish early and get off home. August is an away month, with masses of people quitting their homes and going to lodge somewhere else for a bit.
Here in Britain, with typical lack of self-esteem, we chuck ourselves onto planes in droves, landing in countries all over the world, where we peg ourselves out on bits of scorched earth and declare ourselves ready to live there forever.
Other nationalities, those who think a bit more about themselves, do it differently. They pack up the apartment and the kids and head off to the coast of their native land, where they invariably own a cottage in which to enjoy their many weeks of paid holiday.
Great leveller
Whatever. Somehow it's all a great leveller. To know that the Queen, the Prime Minister, the Notting Hill set, the Hollywood pack and
little old you are all on your jollies at the same time adds to the fun.
The country's institutions close down, Parliament gives itself a good long break, the courts shut down, teachers skip out of school.
I didn't always think it was a good idea to share this downtime – or as much of it as I could given my more meagre holiday entitlement. There was a time when I fought against the August break, believing it was bad to join the many, but now I think a shared national experience is a good thing, whether it's a football match or a week away from work.
Because it's bonding isn't it? That sense of everyone rushing to get away and then secretly wanting to rush back, because holidays are almost always a disappointment? It doesn't make much sense but then that's the beauty of August. It's a wicked month.
Olympic outfits let the side down
The bit of my brain that could have been occupied by Interest in Sport has pretty much been left empty – where other people experience enthusiasm and enjoyment while watching competitive running about, I experience... nothing, really. Usually, after a few long seconds have passed, my eyes slide off in the direction of the nearest reading material.
So I'm not a natural Olympics watcher, but I did find myself by chance viewing the female archery contest, as Britain played China in a semi-final.
China beat us on all fronts: not only were they better at archery but their outfits put us to shame. They were decked out in matching cream trousers, red tops and quirky little hats. We were in cheap-looking T-shirts that made these presumably athletic women look all baggy-bellied and droopy-bosomed. Our team looked poor and scruffy. It was a resounding sartorial defeat.
Left behind
So I've just been off seeing a bit of Europe for my own August hols – not exactly The Grand Tour but a quick whip round several cities in Portugal, Spain and France. There were splendid sights in all of them: the architecture, the shops, the cafes – all of that.
The thing that really had me awe-struck though was the public transport.
Every city I visited, some of them much smaller than Leeds, had trams or an underground system – and often both – to put our city to shame. Money undoubtedly is a factor, but these were cities no richer than ours. How exactly has it happened that these European citizens are travelling easily and relatively cheaply on roads where the traffic flows, while we suffer a much lower quality of life in our choked city?
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Weather for Leeds
Thursday 24 May 2012
Today
Cloudy
Temperature: 10 C to 23 C
Wind Speed: 12 mph
Wind direction: North east
Tomorrow
Sunny
Temperature: 9 C to 21 C
Wind Speed: 16 mph
Wind direction: East
