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On winter in London

It’s easy to love in summer. To love people, the city, life. With sunshine comes vitamin D, longer daylight hours, consistent warmth, the perfect companion to a glass of PIMM’s, blossoming nature and happy, happy humans. Summer makes you want to get out into the world, to never go home, to experience everything. Summer, however, only lasts a few short months. And once it’s gone, and the light begins to fade, and the temperature starts to drop and people give each other furtive glances, you know something bad is about to happen. Yes, winter is coming.


After my previous British life, all those years ago, I happily admitted to anyone who asked that I ran back to Melbourne not only for the job I’d been offered, but to also get away from that ‘ghastly British winter’. I was adamant that I wouldn’t have survived a third experience, what with the sun disappearing at four o’clock in the afternoon and not bothering to reappear until eight o’clock the next morning. And while the temperature did dip to low levels (though possibly not as low as some people may thing), I was used to such coldness from Melbourne’s oft-described psychotic weather. Rather, it was the endless grey sky that made London’s winter different, worse, unbearable. That wretched, bruised sky would sit right on your shoulders, squashing the will to live from your very core.
So. Cold. And. Grey.

With my move back to London, the stars, and my planning, aligned to have me arrive in the warm bosom of the summer season. I was carried along, in barely concealed joy, though the warm days, marvelling at how much I was loving my friends, the city, life. And last year (for yes, 2016 IS last year now), London had a cracking summer. It was so good, in fact, that I wasn’t all that sad to see it go and for autumn to arrive. And with the change in seasons, the days did become wintry, but that crisp-cold-blue-sky kind of wintry which, if you have the right coat, can be just as enjoyable as a blazing hot, summer’s day.
But with each passing day, at the back of my mind, I knew, just knew, that things would take a turn for the worst. Each morning I waited to be woken by the sound of pouring rain, lashing winds, and the cries of my fellow humans. And finally, finally it happened. With the beginning of this new year, the weather truly turned and become the terrible grey misery that is winter.
Legit, stay in bed where it's warm.

I did try to reason with myself that this time, things would be different. I was older, wiser, tougher and could absolutely deal with the ‘ghastly British winter’. It only lasted a few months, after all, and then spring would arrive and the days would again be filled with vitamin D, PIMM’S, warmth and happiness.
Now, usually at this stage in my blog post, I turn things around. I declare that, actually, the challenge before me has been a chance to discover something about myself, has offered insight where before I was blind, has given my life an added dimension where before it was flat. I expect you’ll want me to say something like winter is a time for hibernation, for self-reflection, for looking out at the year ahead with a list of things to accomplish.
Well.
Not this time.
Winter is coming. Actually, no, winter is here, it’s with us, and it’s PANTS. RUBBISH. THE. WORST.

No good can come of it. It’s just something to get through with copious amounts of red wine, deep fried anything and your will to live, hopefully, still intact until summer shines again.
Okay, fine, I'll leave on a more positive note with this very pretty picture of a wintry day in Stamford. Happy?


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