Seasons are like buses – they never arrive when you want them to, if they arrive at all.
Summer never bothered showing up, and now we’re hurtling inescapably into the deep, dark winter. I still haven’t recovered from the last one, and the thoughts of it clasping us in its cruel icy grip sends a chill to my heart even before its icy grip does.
Autumn you say? Autumn me arse. I can’t enjoy it, not knowing the impending hell about to follow. I’m genuinely dreading it, don’t know how I’ll cope, have a knot in my stomach, am shivering at the thoughts of it alone.
I had to buy my jacket for the second time today. The nipper casually lost the one I bought the first time. I was waiting for him to buy me a replacement but panic got the better of me in our battle of wills.
All the sensible animals will hibernate or fly away of course, but I fear neither are options. Not anymore. Suffering is the best we can hope for now.