Seven smells that are basically my Summer

A nasal joyride through plastic paddling pools, salted children, and hot chip-shop pavements

I don’t do summer diaries. No “Dear August, you cheeky little minx.”

My seasons live in my nose. The scents sneak in when I’m minding my own business, walking past a bus stop, opening the back door, shoving my face into my child’s hair and suddenly I’m somewhere else entirely. My summers aren’t measured in weeks, they’re measured in whiffs.

And so, dear reader, I present: my summer in seven smells. Strap in. (Or sniff in. Both.)

1. Paddling pool eau de plastic
You know the smell. That warm, slightly chemical, sun-steeped puddle in the garden that we like to call “refreshing” when actually it’s a lukewarm foot bath for every neighbourhood bug. The plastic edges almost sigh when you press them. It smells of freedom, sticky ice pops, and the creeping dread of having to empty it without splashing 15 gallons on your own ankles.

2. Warm stone, thyme in the cracks
In a sleepy village square, stones hold the day’s heat like a stubborn old cat on your lap. There’s that dusty, chalky scent, dry as a breadstick, and somewhere from between the cracks a whisper of wild thyme. It makes you feel like you should be wearing linen, drinking something pale, pretending you live there forever.

3. Salted children
Post-beach, post-lake, post-who-knows-what. Hair matted into little salty dreadlocks. Skin sticky with dried seawater, Factor 50, and a mystery crust of Calippo residue. Bruises like tiny constellations on their shins. When you squeeze them goodnight, the day clings to you - a whiff of sugar, a sprinkle of sand, and something faintly feral.

4. Hot pavement & vinegar
London does summer in its own way: the tar smell rises up, threatening to glue your sandals, while a rogue waft of chip-shop vinegar sidles out from a side street.