Summer Thinking

And a 'White-Lotus' coded encounter...

Oh, this summer! It's been warm for months - the kind of warm where I exist with bare feet, wear white and most crucially am not cold - and I love it. Earlier this year, I was given a large vintage copper bath by my partner. I have installed it outside on my patio and there have been evenings spent after dark, submerged in that bath feeling the gentle embrace of summer air. There has been star-gazing. The tree that stands in my garden (and is gargantuan) has witnessed my outdoor bathing shenanigans. My son, when I was given the bath, said;

'Are you going to wear a bikini when you get in it?'

'No.'

'Oh.'

And I just let that one land.

Generally speaking, I am kind and wait until he is out. Not much can top the awkwardness quota of a fifty-something mother who bathes outside on summer nights. His friends come round and see the bath, raise a collective eyebrow and probably thank their lucky stars that their mothers are not doing the same. I had a sofa reupholstered and the men who delivered it also raised their eyebrows. One says, as they manoeuvre the piece of furniture through the doorway;

'Is that an outdoor bath?'

'Yes'

'Oh.'

I let that one land too.

Summer presses on, in fact it feels like it is dwindling now and that Autumn will be here soon. The sharpened pencils of September will be upon us before we know it. Sitting at the departure gate in Faro airport as we flew back from a week's holiday in Portugal this week, it dawned on me that my bikini days are over for the year. I got home and started frantically googling winter sun and I fantasise that I could rent an apartment for a month, somewhere hot. Winter - and even worse its bedfellow Christmas - feel like a shocking prospect. But back to the airport departure gate. A large family group sit opposite us and I am trying not to show that I am studying them. My daughter leans over and whispers to me;

'They are 'White Lotus' coded...'

I nod, as they are. It is a wealthy London crowd, a set of parents and another woman, along with various accompanying teenage and young adult kids. They are all dressed with interesting and quirky details and look expensively haphazard and vintage in a cool way. I read that the British costume designer for 'White Lotus' got many of the pieces from charity shops in the UK. Hmmmm. The rest of the people surrounding us are wearing the British sartorial standard of ath-leisure and slides. They carry fake designer bags. The girls have fake eyelashes. There is nothing vintage or cool about them. I try to discern the dynamics of the family group and concoct a story for them to pass the time. The father - 'Padre' they call him - wears a kind of flat cap made from raffia and has a kaballah wristband. He looks like he might work in advertising and have a name like Maximus. I decide he is privately schooled and frightfully connected but likes to keep it real by not flying business. His wife wears all linen, all black and has the body of a pubescent girl. She sports a large, wide-brimmed straw hat adorned with grosgrain ribbon. There are three daughters and a son from what I can gather, and one of the daughters is quietly crying. The mother comforts her with a hug and some wisdom and Padre studiously ignores the emotions on show. I avert my eyes.

The son administers a punch to another sister's upper arm. She is wearing a cashmere tie-dye cardigan and her waist-length hair is tousled and pulled back in a low ponytail with a silk scarf. She has a name like Persephone, I decide. They bicker gently and with a softness that only middle and final children enjoy. The older ones jostle for their parent's attention. The other lone woman with them, I try to place. To my mind, having been there myself, she has the demeanour of the newly divorced. Her children are less robust and have an air of impatience about them. Her daughter, who looks identical to her, wears combat boots with Chanel socks (I hazard they are not fake), and a pair of men's paisley silk boxer shorts. She is dishevelled; elfin and unusual-looking. The two women - the matriarchs - exchange glances and a wan smile. Are they university friends? Known each other for decades? Sisters maybe? But the difference in their physiques belies that theory. The divorced woman wears a kaftan that looks like it was made in Africa and twins it with New Balance trainers and a heaving, pale tan leather slouch bag. She wears a fedora and her long tangled hair falls past her shoulders. They have, if nothing else, an array of good hats.

We do the flight. Two and a half hours of a podcast and some Haribo Starmix to chew on. I forget about the London family.

At the baggage claim though, they are there again. Weary now, the teens are trying to persuade the parents to get an Über instead of the Gatwick Express into the city. Then they embark on a charm offensive to get Padre to order them all a Deliveroo for dinner. It's nearly 8pm and I am weary of my imaginings and want to get home myself. The family make their way, having been reunited with their silver metal suitcases. Padre checks his phone as the women and the children bumble around in front of him. He pulls up the rear and mentally prepares for returning to the office.

Of course I am sure they also made their assessments of me. I was wearing my new fuchsia pink velvet Mary Janes, which I love and give me the same feeling of joy as when I had similar as a child. There is something about Mary Janes. Tanned from a week in the sun, I must have looked pensive as I tried to percolate all that went on during our trip. We are now what one might call a 'blended family' and whilst not formally sanctioned, there is a step-parent vibe. I spent the week making meals for six out of fresh Portuguese ingredients and wondering if it was right that I still fretted about what time my twenty-four year old daughter was getting in from her night out in a foreign country with a man she'd met on Hinge. I was tired having struggled to sleep on an inordinately hard bed with inordinately soft pillows; isn't it always the way? What is it with villa beds? My salvation had been daily trips to the beach, wearing one of my Mum's old cotton sarongs, and bobbing about in the waves each afternoon. The Atlantic ocean mercifully mild in temperature. I scraped my foot on a submerged rock and felt the saltwater toughen the cut straight away.

We get home and my son, who did not come on the holiday, has cooked us a chilli which he fears he has over-salted. We devour it anyway and I am grateful beyond measure. I say, teasingly;

'Did you have an outdoor bath when I was away?'

'No, I forgot!'

He says and we all glance out the window to it, standing empty and disused. My sweetpeas have died in my absence and look forlorn and bleached from the heat and lack of water. I decide to let that one slide. Home, and summer’s nearly done.