As the shortest summer I can ever remember draws to a close, I am beginning to anticipate our short holiday in Kent, in early September. The change of scene, and the time spent together, will make for a welcome break from routine. Despite many dry days recently, and a return of the warmer weather we enjoyed in late May, it has been a summer that passed without notice. Heavy rain throughout July lost us one of the months, and most of June wasn’t that memorable either. So far, August has been marked by a lot of grey, heavy sky, uncomfortably warm nights, and the constant threat of rain that rarely appears.
Since being laid low recently by the virus of some kind, I have not really got back on my feet, or returned to the form before the short period of feeling unwell. I am still tired after a good sleep overnight, and I feel as if I have no energy at all. Routine jobs have become a bind, and even Ollie’s walks have been tiresome, and less paced, with me seeking out benches to sit on more than I ever did before. As a result, those jobs inside and outside the house have started to pile up. Despite resolving daily to do this, or tackle that, nothing is getting done. Getting up earlier to allow more time to do them hasn’t helped at all. I have simply felt tired for longer. Even the prospect of my few hours at the windmill on Friday seems like a daunting task, instead of a pleasant morning out.
The hedges are overdue a cut. Growing fast after the rain, they appear unkempt and shabby. The back patio needs weeding, as the small green shoots have now grown into fully-formed plants between the gaps in the slabs. Garden furniture needs sanding and staining, ready for the coming change in the seasons, and the grass has suddenly popped up again, with the lawn resembling a wild meadow. In nine days time, we have visitors from my family. I am not about to present them with their first sight of our house in this condition, so I going to have to seriously raise my game, starting this weekend. Perhaps once I get started, I might rediscover some of the lost energy. I can only hope so.
It is a shame that I am not a famous artist, or bohemian writer. If I was, I could retire to a chaise longue, and place the back of my hand against my forehead, as I gaze listlessly through the window.
Then others would say it was ‘ennui.’