It’s suddenly hot. Alright, not heatwave hot, but the thermometers are all showing a nice 23 degrees in the house, and through the open window, the air is static enough to pick up the fun of distant children and a rumbling aeroplane.
Must be lovely up there: cumulus clouds casting fluffy shadows on the fields and glinting motorways; above, only the bluest of skies.
Too early to call it summer? I’m tentative, but there’s no doubt that May can sometimes be exactly that - sometimes the entire summer happens in this month, and all that follows after it is scorched grass, monsoon rain on the flower-show roses and school holidays in raincoats and model villages. May has the best of it, so why not call it what it is?
I think, if I were ranking the months in order, May would be about fourth or fifth. Top-half, for sure, but memories of exams and hay fever keep it from real glory. And let’s be honest, it’s never going to compete with the likes of December and September.
For me though, it’s got a good balance of fresh trees, hopeful skies and warm afternoons. I could do with some of those.
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