How to avoid summer, by Grace Dent

Summer has its plus points, but we should be honest that it’s autumn that is the sexy, erudite season, while summer is the stomping ground of less cerebral types.

I have a strict summer checklist: no Frisbee games or general mindless frolicking, dodgeball, softball, unicycles, juggling implements. Being chased with a water pistol? Seriously, I dare you. Standing around a disposable barbecue in a public park aware that my clothes now smell like Wall’s sausages? No. Spotting the British coastline and running towards it flinging off one’s clothes, overlooking the fact the waves are cold and full of toilet paper? No, get a grip. Skinny-dipping in general? Have some dignity. Attending your ad hoc Facebook-organised picnic in an obscure part of Hampstead Heath where everyone has brought at least two babies and the toilet facilities are a hedge, thus passers-by can make Vine clips of your bare bum cheeks? Thank you, but no. Wearing a maxi dress — the dress style that complements no female bodyshape — within the M25? No.

In truth, going bra-free in a spaghetti-strapped dainty frock is unfeasible for my chest. I cannot leave the house in summer without a buttoned-up cardigan, and a can of Mace. My ideal summer outfit is structured, black and comes with a sign that says: ‘I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU THINK OF MY MELONS. KEEP DRIVING, BUDDY.’

All is not lost, however; in fact, some of my happiest times are summer days by a members’ bar’s rooftop pool overlooking Liverpool Street, preferably in the midst of a heaving throng of handsome homosexuals. Waiter service, reliable Wi-Fi, a neverending supply of Piña Coladas and Taittinger, long opening hours and sun loungers to snooze on when I become overly refreshed. Ideally, my day would begin at 11am with brunch, Earl Grey and the newspapers, then by mid-afternoon all the babies, small children or anyone else likely to soil their underwear will have been escorted to the exit, leaving me to drink cocktails in peace. I’ve had a quick word with management about removing all the size 6 hot-bodied Russian girls in bikinis who do laps of the pool and eat only salad, but as of yet they have been uncooperative.

Summer can be fun, in the right circumstances, but the best bit for me is that it’s usually over in a few days and I can be back in bed with a Mitford paperback and my electric blanket.