Sultry summer days, syrupy summer nights and mmmmm…

Hot summery nights and syrupy thoughts … eyes closed, bedroom window wide open, crickets chirping away outrageously, as outrageously as the rejuvenated summer fantasies of this secretly smiling blogger.

But no, I am not going to divulge the top-secret contents of those summer fantasies. (I just blushed at the thought of one of them.) What, a respectable person like me? As If!

Unless, perhaps, my resolve weakens by the end of summer – you know, all that sultry heat and stickiness getting to me – and I end up confessing every last detail of what’s been spinning round and round my head this last hour, together with the uninvited moth that’s just flown into my bedroom, my new night’s companion. Reveal all those shocking summer fantasies, and then type them out, and click PUBLISH. Hmm, should I? But what if I get caught?

The summer. Yes, that’s it. I can blame it on the summer. And the beauteous, seductive city of Krakow. SUMMERTIME IN KRAKOW! If any of you have never experienced summertime in Krakow, then you’d better get yourselves over here right now, before it fades. Paris in the Springtime? Forget it. That’s passé. This exquisite little city over here, tucked into the undulating hills and lush green valleys of southern Poland, has usurped the role from now on. ( So yeah, piss off, Paris.)

Ah, Summertime in Krakow! The days hot and sultry, the nights hotter and sultrier, and this sad blogger’s heart at last singing again! (There’s a bucket in the laundry room downstairs for anyone who requires it.)

Those of you who have been following my blogs since last November will know all about Errant Hubby, alias The Philosopher. But here’s the thing. Hubby has now been forgiven, thanks to Summertime in Krakow. He doesn’t know it yet, but I think he suspects something is afoot. I met him yesterday, you see. For lunch. That’s how sweet and forgiving a person I am. Despair one minute, forgiveness the next. Or, come to think of it, maybe I’m just nuts, to borrow a quaint American turn of phrase. (Since a certain school reunion, Americans have occupied a soft place in my heart rather a lot.)

“Thanks for a great lunch,” I texted Hubby later that evening, feeling all relaxed and laid-back and looking forward to further adventures with my summer-night fantasies in a few hours’ time. “Btw, you’re looking great,” I added generously. “Obviously life without the trouble and strife is working wonders for you.” (Footnote: trouble and strife = wife, just to clarify for any readers unfamiliar with such British idiocies.)

And then, precisely ten seconds later, he texted me right back. “You’re looking marvelous yourself.” And he spelt “marvellous” the American way, so I assume he must have been pretty distracted about something. What? I could hear his Irish philosopher’s brain cogitating, Isn’t she supposed to be heart-broken? I cheated on her, didn’t I? What the hell’s going on here?

So apparently my slow-brained philosopher hadn’t worked out that Summertime in Krakow was what was going on – you know, with the birds and crickets all singing in harmony, duetting his old true-love’s heartbeat. (Puking bucket in laundry room still available.)

Or actually, come to think of it … have I got it wrong? Stupid, stupid me – all that fantastic education, and yet here I am, x number of years later, getting things wrong over and over again. I just can’t help myself. I keep doing it, all the fucking time – and it wasn’t actually me that used the f-word just then; it was a typo. But the two things I keep getting wrongest of all (perhaps not all that fantastic an education) are Love and Marriage – which, btw, do NOT go together like a horse and carriage.

So it’s not the happiness bit that I’ve got wrong, then. It’s the analysis of it. I erroneously thought that Summertime in Krakow had brought happiness back to my aching heart. But that wasn’t it. Okay, so do you want the truth, the whole truth and all that? I hate lies, and so did Hubby, once upon a golden time – but he can piss off, in the nicest possible way, together with Paris in Springtime, because I’m not thinking of either of them now.

The real reason why the sweet bird of happiness has flown right back into this blogger’s life is actually quite simple. It’s reconnection that has done the trick. Made my heart alive again. Reconnection at a certain school reunion, combined with memories, nostalgia, renewed hopes, renewed zest for life, renewed confidence as a woman, as a desired woman, and then, slowly but surely, the first stirrings of …

But no.

Even if I was as brave as the intrepid Joan of Arc herself, I couldn’t possibly fill in those three dots with anything graphic. I just couldn’t. I mean, not here! This is private stuff, after all, isn’t it?

Oh, hang on – it’s not private. Or won’t be, once I post it. Any moment now. To the scary  public at large. I never was all that good at reasoning or logic. But even if I was good at it, I still wouldn’t dare fill in those three dots. I mean, what if I did, and accidentally pressed the wrong key, and sent the blog to some Father-Confessor website? What would those angry priests do to me??!! (Actually, I think they hurriedly got rid of all their whips before the last inspection from Head Office.)

So instead of writing about those three forbidden dots, I’m going to save them for myself; for my sweet, sticky, syrupy summer nights that envelop me with their indecent happiness and inner-glow that flies to the stars and back as I open the window wide … and I’m going to listen to the crickets chirping in rhythm with my heartbeat (bucket overflowing now), and then dizzily, giddily, return to my waiting bed, and ask the listening night:  How on earth did all this happen?