Summer is the cruellest season[1]. The time of scratched knees and bruised elbows, sunburn, mosquito bites, and rash from brushing against stinging nettles; the time of couples, friends, and families squabbling over holiday destinations, over choices of rented rooms, foreign foods, and beaches (or mountains), and over what everyone wanted but never got (which is all the others’ fault, of course); the time of existential angst as every perfect moment bites off another mouthful of the remaining halcyon days[2], the end of which is as predictable as the outcome of a tarot reading[3].
Summertime: The magic of activities
