Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May

High summer has come and gone in a matter of days. The first heatwave of the year, when the sun feels high and the air grows blowsy and smells of pollen, has given way to rain. The world feels renewed and I am transported back to a childhood of yellow-checked dresses, scuffed knees and endless time, of daisy chains and failed handstands and anticipation of orange squash in plastic beakers. Before innocence gave way to cynicism.

I have entered a new era, one in which hopes and dreams have been replaced with realism and practicality and something akin to resignation. It is one where old rivalries have cooled and kindness is replacing vindictiveness among people I knew when I was younger, where the edges of loneliness are creeping in – not just for me, but for others who recognise that they too are no longer young.

Now the joy of summer is tempered by the knowledge that all too soon it is over; the years speeding up, while friendships lapse – though rarely, these days, disappearing forever – and plans wither or change direction. I thought by now I’d be settled, but a restlessness creeps over me at this time of year  – a sort of spring fever that has now given way to a nostalgia for a future that is not quite as I imagined.

New acquaintances feel disposable but a solidarity has set in among my peers – a feeling that none of us is quite where we thought we would be, and for that, we are forgiving of one another. Bit by bit, old arrogances are running to seed, growing paunchy and threadbare, or throwing caution to the wind altogether, no longer caring what others may or may not think.

I can now bleach my hair and write poetry as if no one is watching, safe in the knowledge that no one, not really, cares and there’s a liberation in that. The self-consciousness of young adulthood is giving way to the remembrance of a time when it didn’t matter if my skirt fell over my head or I had grass stains on my arse. These days, it is a stray hair or unguarded phrase that might catch me unawares, but the knives are no longer out for me if I transgress. I am more and more inconsequential and there is a joy to be found in that, if you look hard enough.