Today is midsummer’s day. And it’s raining. Only lightly now, but I’ve been drenched twice. My anemone de caen are trying to flower, but it’s hard when there is so little sun.
I keep overhearing gloomy conversations such as “they say we’re going to get three months’ rain in the next three days”, or “they say it’ll brighten for the weekend and then get really, really wet again,” or “they say that in 1976, when we had a proper drought, it was actually really rainy until the end of June,” or, and this is my favourite, by which, of course, I mean it’s the worst of the lot, “they say it’s going to rain until September.” Please no. We’re off to Scotland in July for god’s sake.
How can it possibly be midsummer, when we haven’t even had more than three sunny days in a row since March? But there’s no denying the date on the calendar. It is the 21st of June. And at about this time every year Joe and I like to have our annual is-this-our-wedding-anniversary conversation. It’s a moveable feast, a bit like Easter, and takes place any time between the 21st and 28th of June and during the course of the debate we always decide that June 21st sounds about right. More often than not we’ve missed it.
Today is not our wedding anniversary though. And the debate ended, as it always does, with me pointing out, for the sixteenth time, that we would surely have remembered having a midsummer’s wedding. But then again, when midsummer’s day feels so very
un-summery, perhaps we wouldn’t. It turns out that our wedding anniversary is the 22nd.