Summertime and the living is, well, easy. Or at least, so it seems from here.

I’m sitting here, wrapped in a blanket, in my pyjamas, wishing it were summer.

It’s spring next week and I’m holding my breath. Soon, the Jacarandas will be in bloom. Soon, the sun will dry out the earth, the air and the water. Soon it will be scorching hot and every inhalation will burn my nostrils. Soon I will start sweating as soon as I wake up. Soon, I’m not going to be able to sleep because the sheets stick to me like glue. Soon, I’m going to boil in my own skin.  Soon it’s going to be summer and I can’t wait.

The humidity will soar – in conjunction with the mercury. The heat will rise from the rooves of houses and the bitumen and I’ll be able to see it and I'll think it marvellous, reminding me of old school Australian films that used that locked off shot of the heat sizzle rising from the road to indicate just how remote some of the properties are.

The fruit will be amazing. I’ll over-indulge in lychees, mangos and watermelons that will be so ripe and juicy that I’ll need to eat them over the kitchen sink.

LSH will grumble and say “I’m melting” wicked witch style at least four times a day. The dog will pant, with her long tongue hanging to the floor. She’ll either position herself under the air-conditioning or on a cold patch on the floor, moving every few minutes, to find a new spot not warmed by her body. I’ll spend at least three weeks deliberating if I should have her shaved, only to have the vet tell me that some dogs are actually quite vain and it’s likely that shaving her will make her feel self-conscious. So I’ll leave her hot and panting so as to not destroy her self esteem.

My little black car will be a hot box of steam. When I jump in it, my sunglasses will fog up from humidity. I’ll be able to wear bright colours for a full six months, instead of the customary winter blacks and greys. I'll be on my way to a lunch with the girls, we'll be drinking, eating and laughing - as we can only do under the big bright blue umbrella sky of summer.

But, by Christmas Day, I’ll wish I could stand in the middle of Antarctica, if only for a moment, for a reprieve from the heat. I’ll stand in front of my wardrobe in January looking at the winter clothes stacked haphazardly on the top shelf and wonder if it could ever possibly be cold enough to wear them again. I’ll quickly look away, because sometimes, just looking at a jumper makes my skin freak out into a sweat.

By next March, I’ll be so totally over summer. Tired of sweating from just sitting on the couch. I'll be tired of having my make-up slide off my face as soon as I've put it on. I'll be tired of trying to straighten my hair, only to have it spring back into a curl, like the little recalcitrant it is. I'll be frustrated with being covered in a permanent layer of silt, that my damp skin has attracted during the day. I'll be tired of wondering if I smell and if having sweaty feet is weird. And I’ll have forgotten just how excited I was just this past August.

Still, right now I’m under a blanket and I’d rather not be. Right now, I think summer’s going to be wonderful and I simply can’t wait.