Like the cloying, clammy paw of a St Bernard on my chest, the summer sun has returned and you find me in despair. I hate everything about the heat – sweat, hot air, the rigmarole of fans, flies and, worse still, freckles, as a hydrogen ball 93m miles away uses my tired flesh as a pointillist sketch pad. The necessity of sun cream should alone be enough to discount the remedial joys of warm weather – a runny ooze designed by evil scientists intent on creating the most uncomfortable liquid one could possibly smear on one’s body. What bonus was granted to the Gestapo’s SonneKreme division when they contrived that mixing it with sweat would generate the eye-stinging sensation so seemingly beloved by everyone else on this godforsaken planet?
At least my wife is no sun worshipper, either. We are, in fact, both active solar heretics. We mock the sky as clouds roll in and cheer each drop of rain as if it’s an Irish hurdler finishing last in the qualifying stage of the Olympic Games. We bond over our hatred of the sun, in the same way other, more basic, couples rejoice in their shared love for each other or, I dunno, table tennis.
What’s worse is our flat was clearly designed by someone who spent summers in cold storage, escaping the house-sized pizza oven they left behind. Our first heatwave here began the week our son was born. Exhausted, scared and unprepared, the worst aspect of those first weeks was how the temperature never once dropped below 29C.
We know this because we bought a glowing egg-shaped thermometer that changed colour from green to orange and onward towards heat death, depending on the temperature. There it stood on the dresser by his cot; baleful, unblinking and glowing a deep, panic red for the first 40 days of his life.
Alas, our son doesn’t recall any of this. To our horror, he rejoices in the glare and hiss of summer sun, just one more normie infatuated by things that are clearly shite, like mint chocolate, the Doors or, I dunno, table tennis. Bound by love, we hold our noses and bathe our meaty little beachball in an all-body rub of factor 7,000, and let him sweat his way, delighted, through our local park.
There, like dough dipped in breadcrumbs, he accumulates a patina of sticks and greenery like some sort of human snowball comprised of leafy detritus. After 15 minutes tumbling through even the most well-manicured park, he’s more grass than boy, and we pick him up and wipe him down before he blends into his environment like a Russian sniper in forest camo. We wince and squint and head under the nearest tree. We have done our bit. We have braved the horror. Let others take the glare for a while. The warmth of our son is enough.
Follow Séamas on Twitter @shockproofbeats
