A lot changes. Buying a house, getting married, getting a cat. Nothing changes. The weather breaks, steams and sweats and I act like it’s something brand new, even though the screenshots on my phone, the reminders served up to me one year cold, a piece of wedding cake frozen and forgotten, tell me it did exactly this, at exactly this time, last year.
The air conditioning in our office is broken and it reminds me exactly what a basic, broken animal I am. I move from hot seat to hot seat, sweating and sticking, peeling my tacky thighs off the plastic seats of an unpleasant Thai restaurant in Soho. Somewhere since last summer, I have become a step tracker, and so I glance at my wrist, watching the small exercised increments stack up, as if wandering from meeting room to kitchen to desk might constitute real exercise. It feels like real exercise. I am tired, my flat feet blistered and sore in my Birkenstocks. I cannot keep my toenails painted, they constantly look like shit, the second nail on each foot blackened from netball. I am no athlete but now I run, 6, 7, 10 kilometers at a time, 20, 25, 30 kilometers a week, getting comfortable with being uncomfortable. There is nothing less natural to me.
My garden loves the summer. This is Southern Hemisphere weather: heavy, hanging days caving into rain and thunder and a washed blue sky. I know the names of things now, since my Mum stayed, and filled the planters with soil, and dotted the beds with colours. I have drowned my sad pansies, but the lobelia is lush and the fuschia is taking over, a strange and foreign bright flash in my dusty English garden. I have tried to bring back the lawn, dead and curled around the edges like an old letter since one summer gone, but I have failed. The grass seed will not take and the fertiliser mushes into the soil like cake mix and the fat pigeons have come down from the trees and pecked up anything living. There are no worms turning my dead dirt, and I knew it even as I tried it, cutting the corners on the WikiHow article on bringing back a dead lawn. I need tools and time, and I have neither. The time I have is listless and flapping. I am laundry hung badly. I am dripping. I am clean, but beginning to turn.
I am allergic to the ivy that coats the walls of my garden. Mostly it doesn’t matter. I don’t wrap myself in it. I like the way it hides the trellis and the noisy neighbours and the wall that is about to come down. Last weekend I took to it (take to a stage, take to hedges, take to drinking, I have taken to you, a duck to water) with new Amazon hedge clippers, and felt in the new blades the strength of easy destruction. The ground was thick with big green leaves by the time I was done but the ivy-walls themselves looked no different, no thinner. There are snails lurking in the hedge of ivy, snails that are denuding my small, trying flowers and so I throw them, one by one, over into the neighbour’s garden, which is a frenzied tangle of creeper and blackberries, and into which no one goes. I know I am allergic to ivy as I do this, because my Mum is allergic to ivy, and because last time I helped in the garden I got a red rash on both my forearms that lasted two weeks, but a month, two, have passed since I learned this and so I have forgotten that urgent, agonizing not-quite-pain, and I do not put a long-sleeved top on.
Five days later and I am paying the price, with both arms stippled red and stinging. Antihistamines help a little, steroid cream helps a little. Soaked paper towels wrapped around both arms by a colleague I don’t deserve helps a lot, but doesn’t help with my typing speed. Summer has slowed the things around me, but my to-do list creeps longer, even as I hack at it. I hold ice cubes to my skin, stand with my arms under the taps in the bathroom for 30 seconds, a minute. I am sweaty, dripping, itching, suffering, distracted, indignant. I did this to myself, and I don’t quite know why.