1. The exclaimer
Ashen-faced Londoners are panic-buying sandals, Pimm’s and those Chinese sky-lanterns that definitely won’t set everything on fire: summer has arrived. However, Jessica feels the need to notify anyone who may have overlooked the blistering heat and flying ants. As the tiny winged villains bombard your face and bathe in your pint, Jessica breaks out the sun emojis and takes to Twitter to state clearly, succinctly and without any room for misinterpretation: ‘SUMMER!’ Cheers for that, Jess.
2. The complainer
Sporting your finest novelty pineapple sunnies, you soak up the vibrancy of a new summer’s day. Even Martine’s whingey Facebook posts can’t ruin your mood: ‘Too hot,’ pish! You flip-flop down the street with a smile broader than a tripping Cheshire cat. But the happiness falters as you find yourself retching at the odour of sun-baked bin-bags and by the time you’ve descended the tube station escalator your soul has completely evaporated through your sweaty skin. Dammit, Martine, you’ve got a point.
3. The beach yoga performer
Hazel is at one with nature: she’s risen for the sunrise to perform silhouetted feats of flexibility that’ll have mature gents worrying about their blood pressure. You scroll through her posts, sneering at her Karate Kid beach poses, while remembering your last holiday in Ramsgate. But you mustn’t allow jealously to get the better of you; just try to forget that your yoga classes take place in an airless Catford basement.
4. The sunburn flaunter
Ben’s the type of lad who’ll post sympathy-fishing status updates (‘Oh no, not again...’ or ‘Can’t believe she said that!’) in the hope that his oafish followers will lap up the mystery and allow him to bask in the spotlight of self-engineered attention. But you can ignore this. Unfortunately, Ben also posts selfies of his celestially cooked body after an accidental five-hour beach nap, publicly documenting the cereal-like texture of his crusty skin and its reptilian shedding. You won’t eat Cornflakes for months.
5. The constant holidaymaker
The office is sweatier than Satan’s armpits in a thermal onesie, but sneaking a look at Facebook under the ninja watch of your manager will do nothing to stave off the self-harm. A hurried scroll through the deluge of online tedium will distress you further as you see Jo is providing the world with yet another holiday countdown. ‘Seven sleeps until Marbs!’ You try to stifle your loathing as you dig your nails into the desk. At least her Insta feed entertains; it has enough material to play ‘hotdogs or legs?’ for the next seven years.
By Robert Dixon