I have this idea that somewhere in London right now there is a homesick New Zealander, desperately clinging onto an image of home. Yes, as they layer on their thermal underwear and button up their winter coat, they’ll be keeping in mind how they image things would be if they were back in Auckland.
They imagine a bright sunny day, the glistening blue waters of the Waitemata, the warm black sand of Karekare, parents and children playing the picnicking at Mission Bay, jazz in the Domain on a warm afternoon – nothing like the cold, grey winter of London.
Ah, but the great paradox is that at the moment many Aucklanders have that fantasy too.
I’ve given up the “if it’s December, if must be summer” logic, for trying to follow that would just end in misery. Instead I’m pretending it’s winter. As I sit on the couch with my heater on and all snuggled up under a duvet, I’m pretending that it’s a cold winter night and being pleasantly surprised by how my fingers aren’t numb.
I saw on the news tonight that there’s snow predicted for somewhere in the South Island on Saturday. The weather presenter made a comment about maybe there’d be a white Christmas. It sounds like it would be like the time when I was 19 and went to Palm Springs on Christmas day, went up this mountain thing and saw a bit of snow and was like, “Oh, snow on Christmas day,” but noticed a distinct lack of magic and wonder.
But Christmas isn’t about weather and getting in iPod or underwear or a book isn’t reliant on the weather. However, summer is usually about warm weather, so this alleged so-called summer had better get its act together quick-smart.