August shuffled, slightly embarrassedly into London this week. I think the apologetic entrance is down to it knowing all too well what a letdown it’s going to be. I’ve never liked August. Never really trusted him; at least not since the great washout of ’91. Skulking in late, at the tail end of already disappointing summers, it brings with it nothing but empty promises and Spanish tourists. Well, this year it has also bought with it the Olympics. The crowds in London are not as bad as people have expected – indeed a disgruntled shop keeper in central London was on the evening news yesterday, bemoaning the fact that all the tourists had gone to East London, where the games are largely taking place, leaving him facing the ‘quietest August he’d ever known’. He wouldn’t be saying that if he’d grown up in a small welsh village, and spent his Augusts staring out a stubborn grey drizzle which seemed to have taken up residence overhead. Yes. August is the doldrums of the year. How much better it could have been if those Romans hadn’t gone and renamed it. Before the name change, August was Sextillus. How could you go wrong with a name like that? Why change it? Those Romans have a lot to answer for. Never mind cruxification. August… WTF?
Not like May. Ah May. Yes, now there’s a month to be proud of – full of promise, easy to spell and, err.., birth month of Karl Marx. I’d take May over August any day of the week (or indeed, month).