It’s spring again, there’s no denying it. And we’ve had a couple of days of very unseasonal heat, and my silly tan lines are coming back, and I don’t like it at all. I feel like we haven’t had enough winter. There hasn’t been a single snowfall since Christmas. I miss cold toes, and wearing five layers, and the cosiness of dark mornings and dark evenings. I know no one’s going to sympathize with this. But I’m bored with spring. I keep meaning to take some illustrative photos of fluffy blossoming trees, but I just can’t be bothered to get excited about them like I did last time around*. I want December back. Spring is too easy.
I don’t know why I’m trying to cling onto the seasons so much this year. I didn’t want summer to end, and I didn’t want autumn to end, and I didn’t want winter to come, and now I don’t want it to end. Why is this? Could I really be getting jaded with the changing seasons? Or is it that I know this wonderful job can’t last forever, and I want time to slow down?
The very worst thing about spring: it’s now impossible to get a park bench to yourself, unlike in January, when it was basically just us and the tramps.
* Though I note from the entry I’ve linked to that spring came about a month later last year. This is interesting, and possibly also alarming.