Call me a Kill-Joy.
Shower me with insults.
Drag my burning carcass through the streets of the citadel and hang it from the city walls as a lesson to others
Father, I have a confession to make.
I don’t like summer. I do not like perspiring excessively. I take exception to the inevitable bouts of narcolepsy that occur during hot, sticky afternoons.
You would be forgiven for picturing the author as a malnourished Goth, suffering vitamin D deprivation in the depths of some dilapidated crypt. But I am no such thing. I adore colour, really I do.
It’s simply that temperatures in excess of 20 degrees Celsius do not agree with my delicate constitution.
How does the present missive relate to Kites? I’m afraid I have no idea.
I cannot deny that it reads like a rather pointless polemic against sunshine.
Please accept my most humble apologies. In future, I shall endeavour to approach the seaside with the boundless enthusiasm of someone who has never experienced sunburn.
Kites will try to enjoy the weekend before they commence their tour next week. We hope that you do too.
Fetch me my bucket and spade, I’m off to the beach!
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