Today I wake up with myxomatosis eyes. I smile askance at the reflection that zombied back at me, for the redness augers that summer has finally come to Brooklyn. If anyone asks: I'm taking one for the team.
Up until this weekend there have been flirty spells of sunshine, but nothing strong enough to take the puritan chill out of the evening air. But suddenly it happens. The sun ups its game, and the air above the sidewalks begins to waver.
This weekend Central Park became a Glastonbury crowd - with the sun the headline act. There were queues to get in and queues to leave. There was, admittedly, less ostentatious drug-taking and mud-wallowing, but the jostling for elbow room was no less fierce for all that. It was competitive recreation at its animal best.
But on that first festival day of summer we're not in Central Park. We're stuck in traffic on the wrong side of the Lincoln tunnel and the sun streaming in the back window is broiling us. Then I'm sitting outside working my way through my fourth bottle of Miller(the champagne of beers)and my jacket is still bundled up in my bag, although darkness has well and truly fallen. It feels like a personal victory, and looking round,I see that I'm not the only one with a triumphant gleam in my hay-feverish eyes.