Only Happy When It Rains

It’s, like, really really hot out. Did you know? No one has mentioned it ever, anywhere. I like sunshine, but I don’t like heat. It’s nice in theory, but I melt and get angry and petulant when temperatures rise about about 22 degrees. “It’s toooo hooooootttt. I’m hooooott. I’m sooooo sweatttyyyy neeeeeeeeeeuuuuuuuuuuurghhhh”. I’m a joy to be around.
westminster-autumnleaves2

Nope. I’m afraid my heart belongs to Autumn. And, also to a lesser extent, winter. I love layering. Or is it layers? I like layers. Trifle has layers. And Tiramisu. And Melanzane. Oh god, food is bloody brilliant. What was I talking about? Oh yeah. Autumn. I love it. Skinny jeans, big cardis. Hats, I love a hat. Basically, I like to be in clothes that are slouchy and comforting but sturdy. I’m no waif and there is NOTHING sturdy about vest tops which are so skimpy, that they could easily be sneezed away should your hayfever get that dire. Also, sandals. They cut my feet up, and I hate getting my feet out, they’re pallid and I’ve had too many misadventures with fake tan to have at them with any of that again. I know I’m not the only one out there. Comfort over anything else for me now. Bah humbug. Sweaty icks, begone. Out with you *pouts*

It’s not actually my slow decline into middle(ish) age that has brought this on. I’ve always loved Autumn. For me, it has always signalled promise, hope and new beginnings. New school terms, everything fresh and smelling of disinfectant after a deep clean over the Summer term. New stationery, cruelly sharpened pencils from WH Smith, and a starchy, stiff uniform. Fresh pages in the pristine exercise books. Such hope and look to the future, which slowly morphed into doom when I hit my GCSE and A-Level years. Even though I’m no longer in school, and I certainly don’t get to go out and play Rounders for an hour every week (mores the pity) Autumn still has a hold of my heart, not least because my birthday is in September. FYI, I’ll be turning 21 for the…er…7th time.

Autumn. A fresh start. A new year. Some people feel this way on January 1st, some feel it in the Spring, when everything is in bloom,  awake from the bitterly cold and elongated winter months (this is the UK. Our Winters are Game Of Thrones-like, and decades long). Autumn, or fall as my American pals (howdy!) refer to it as, Fall, is my BFF. Summer is a pressure cooker, I find, of either scorching temperatures (we have a heatwave EVERY year, and EVERY year it’s ‘unexpected’ and the roads buckle and the tubes become vehicles into hell itself). Or, it’s dull and cold and everyone feels really cheated. September marks the end of it, it’s a blessed relief. Kids go back to school, parents breathe a sigh of relief. Those working contractually in academia have another nine months of tenure. Dissertations get started. Leaves get crunched underfoot, I always dig out my battered Sixth Form copy of Keats, and have a read of Ode To Autum and think ‘Good lord, look at all that clever annotation circa lower Sixth. No idea what I was banging on about, bless’. Everyone starts adding nutmeg and cinnamon to their lattes. Muslin and the lightest cotton is replaced by sheepskin.

Oh gawd. It’s just lovely. I can haz September nao?


*All my cards on the table for you, my fabulous readers. This is a sponsored post.

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