The summer is missing

Okay, let's talk about the weather then. Goodness, guys, this is just absurd? I'm used to a fresh summer breeze in mid-June, but being blown out of your clothes (as my grandpa calls it) in August is quite exaggerated.

First of all: it's warm.

When you drink courage in the morning by the window with a cup of coffee, you get the idea that it's cold. But seriously cold. As in: a jacket and scarf wouldn't hurt. Well, actually it would, because it's just warm. If you accidentally find yourself in a sheltered spot in the sun, the rays are hitting your knee pits. Yes, I'm just saying it like it is.

Secondly: it's cold.

The first of August has passed, so you can go without a jacket. Ha-ha-ha, just kidding. With a wind speed of six, the wind blows through you, just what optimistically bare, top. And don't think you can chill on your balcony until noon, you can do that again in October.

Thirdly: I crave pea soup.

Good, thick split pea soup. Gloomy weather calls for hearty food. Let me just say I have all kinds of light things in the fridge (Simone is a proud mother), but I'm longing for mashed potatoes and soup where your spoon stands upright.

Fourthly: you have nothing to wear (but you did buy new things).

Also something, we drag all those summer collections back home, but don't think you can handle it. That skirt flutters up to regions you'd rather not show, and with the off-the-shoulder style, it's just a bit chilly around the neck.

Fifthly: a hairstyle is not an option.

Forget it, just forget it. Really, that brush is unnecessary, you don't need to spend half an hour with curlers and the straightener is just a joke. The moment you step outside, everything that seemed nice gets rained on or blown away. on your head just goes to pieces.

“Has August completely lost its mind?”

Sixthly: the sunglasses serve as a headband.

Because at least then it does something. Exactly.

Seventhly: before you know it, you're in a wet T-shirt contest.

Just to be safe, you wrap yourself in jeans and a white shirt, because that's still reasonably survivable at all degrees Celsius. Off you go, on your bike to work, and then you get the biggest downpour in history on your head. And on your shirt. Your wet shirt. You immediately find yourself in a contest. You arrive so embarrassingly at the office with the ladies in sight. Trouble.

Eighthly: your summer tan disappears.

All those carefully applied hours of sun fly off your legs. And when the sun shines again, you give off light. So that's sour.

Ninthly: the windscreen must come to the terrace.

I had a small glass at the neighbors' terrace yesterday. Well, I had to hold the base of my glass so tightly, otherwise my vino would have been blown off the terrace. By the way, the rain also seemed horizontal, it was flapping under the awning.

Tenthly: white wine tastes different.

That wine, it just tastes less sunny without the sun.

I hear here on the left that the sun is shining this weekend. In Ibiza, the weather score has been a ten all week, said the Ibiza-goer on the right who is flying out tomorrow morning (so I'm going to mercilessly chase her down at the editorial office, you understand). May is enjoying herself with her beloved under the sun in Saint-Tropez. And me? I'm going to book a vacation tonight. Has August completely gone crazy.