In August, the city shuts down – and I find myself following suit

Who knew there were so many things that could go wrong when you pass 60?

August is the weirdest month. It’s not just me who feels this way; there’s a popular Sylvia Plath quote that does the rounds on social media at this time of year: “August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.”

I rather like that description: the odd uneven time. And it’s certainly true that the best of the summer is gone; my garden is testament to that, all browning grass and fading perennials. The pond is overgrown, the wildlife lawn looks like the kind of abandoned lot that ought to have an abandoned, burned-out car in the middle of it.

The whole neighbourhood feels a bit shut down; schools are closed, and the streets free of traffic. In term time I curse the lines of cars, but right now I miss the activity and sense of purpose they convey. I miss the little bursts of music from the open windows as they pass. I miss the sound of kids shouting outside on the pavement. I miss the aliveness.

Even the cafe – MY cafe, the one I’ve written about before – is deserted. This morning at 9am I am the only customer. Two members of staff are hovering by the till looking bored, and then compete to bring me a coffee. We look around at the empty tables and shrug sympathetically. Where IS everybody?

Back at home I look back through my diaries for the past two years and find blank pages where August should be. It seems that every year I run out of steam in late July, picking myself up again in the early autumn. Something in me seems to go dormant during this month. Like the garden, I’ve done all my fancy flowering and now I’m gearing up for the slowdown. There’s nothing on at the cinema, and nothing on telly, and all my friends are on holiday.

Obviously, I don’t want to be on holiday in August, as it’s too hot and crowded everywhere. Airports are a nightmare and I’m grateful not to be tied to school term dates. But still, I miss all my friends and I’m cross with THEM for being on holiday.

I suppose some people love this time of year. I find a quote from the Finnish writer Tove Jansson, which expresses the alternate point of view, seeing August as a kind of transitional experiment.

“I love borders,” she wrote. “August is the border between summer and autumn; it is the most beautiful month I know. Twilight is the border between day and night, and the shore is the border between sea and land. The border is longing: when both have fallen in love but still haven’t said anything. The border is to be on the way. It is the way that is the most important thing.” When you put it like that, August sounds like the best month of the year. But I just can’t see it.

It’s while I’m wallowing in this not unenjoyable bucket of self-pity that I read a headline on my phone from the Guardian: “Scientists find humans age dramatically in two bursts – at 44, then 60”. Well, I think, isn’t that just terrific news. I try to remember how I felt at 44, back in 2006. As far as I can remember I was still in my prime, not unduly weighed down with illnesses or injuries.

But the idea that 60 is a significant moment in the ageing process doesn’t surprise me at all. I’m two years into this fabulous decade, and it’s been an eye-opener. Who knew there were so many things that could go wrong or need checking quite so regularly? I was expecting to embark on a gentle downward slope, but some days it seems more like a sheer drop. I know many of my friends are feeling the same. It’s almost reassuring to read that our bodies are only behaving as expected.

Although the idea of “ageing dramatically” sounds exhausting. I’m not sure I have the energy to do anything dramatically any more. Can I not age lethargically and half-heartedly, with an eye-roll and a groan, the way I do everything else? Especially in August.

[See also: Why we make art]