Whether it's the Wymondham open air jazz picnic, or the slow journey home from the Glastonbury Festival, summer has to begin somewhere. I'm not a Memorial Day believer, prefering to keep my thoughts for a November Sunday.
I believe that the beginning of summer shifts, each year it depends upon circumstance, that something as beautiful and transient as summer cannot be pinned down to a date in a diary, that it depends upon friends, food and sunshine.
Today feels like the beginning of summer. The World Cup is over, Italy won. I drunk a bunch of beers watching the Final and would have rather seen the French win.
That's it, the business part of the year is done, we just have to wait out the hot months until September rolls around.