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But when you smell that first jasmine of October, or feel that first blast of dry air from an open car window in November, you realise you missed it. You missed the burn. Because underneath all the sweat, the spider fears, and the melted ice cream, there is a raw, beautiful, sun-drunk joy.
Then you emerge, salt-stung, and find a stray chip buried in the sand. A seagull watches you with the cold, predatory intelligence of a dinosaur.
You just have to wait for the southerly buster to arrive.
It doesn’t creep in, the Australian summer. It detonates.
Australian summer is a crucible. It tests your patience, your skin, and your sanity. It melts your chocolate and curdles your milk. It is too loud, too hot, too long.
On Christmas Day, you eat prawns and mangoes, not roast turkey. You drink bubbles on a deck while wearing a floral shirt and shorts. You listen to the Boxing Day Test on AM radio while the fan oscillates. You go for a swim at 9pm, the water still warm from the day, the streetlights reflecting off the black glass of the bay.
Let’s not romanticise it too much. Australian summer is also the season of anxiety. The fire danger rating on the BOM app: CATASTROPHIC . The smell of smoke on a January northerly wind. The distant thrum of a water-bombing helicopter. You check the Fires Near Me app the way other people check Instagram. It is a summer of sunburns so severe you sleep on your stomach, of paralysis ticks, of bluebottles washing up in a purple, stinging line along the shore. It is the season you learn that "she’ll be right" is a prayer, not a promise.