About bloody time too.
An exhausting week last week was followed up surprisingly pleasantly and delightfully when I woke up on the Saturday morning and dared to leave the house before 11o'clock (in the a.m. I'll have you know). Having lived in Manchester for the past three years, I'm no stranger to wearing two jumpers when you know you that it's the time of year when you really should be wearing one - JustInCase the temperature drops to below 0. Again. For no apparent reason. In March. So when I stepped out of the front door to be immediately enveloped in this bright, warming sensation that I remember from a time gone by to be known as sunshine, I was nothing less than stunned.
Tentatively edging down the path towards the pavement where the normal people walk, I looked around for a camera crew aiming a large bulb my way in a bizarre and elaborate Truman Show style prank, but to no avail. This rare and beautiful light was, indeed, the real live sun! My eyes trailed from the sky down to the edge of the road, where I noticed little patches of violet poking cautiously through the soil, huddling together as if to preserve their kind against the harshness of Manchester's tempramental temperatures and drunk students with Beer-Jackets on. On closer inspection, I realised that these miniscule purple buds of lovliness were actually crocuses. Real-live crocuses, waiting patiently for the sun to establish itself in the sky long enough for them to peel back their indigo overcoats, revealing their teeny black and gold outfits, filled with new-life. Well, pollen actually.
I made my way into the university library about 5 times slower than usual, just so as I could take it all in. The sun, SHINING, as opposed to just making it bright so that I can see my exhaled breath more clearly in front of my face. These new flowers were more than just snowdrops - the accompaniment of the winter chill - but rather spots of colour. Like nature's attempt at Impressionist art. And more impressively, I saw skin. I mean, human flesh, the exposed flesh of those who had dared to bare. Mostly forearms and a few bashful legs, but it was the product of some little miracle.
The indicator of the arrival of Spring is different for everybody. Some people love the increasingly frequent sound of birds, announcing their return from the south. Some (like my Swedish Galpal) love the cherry-blossoms. Spring's alternative to snow. Or confetti joining us and our spring-inspired smiles in holy springtime matrimony. For me, it's the daffodils that appear in clusters as if from nowhere. Their yellow heads with mini-trumpet mouths are the heralds of a new, sunnier, dawn as far as I'm concerned. The signifier of brighter days, happier faces, picnic invitations and life just being nice again. Just the sight of them is enough to make me head for the shorts, vest-tops, pretty (non-waterproof - ha!) sandals, and the sarong that you take to the park to lounge around on.
Thank fuck, cos I was getting really pissed off with having to cover up my outfits with 'warm' big coats all the time...
Tentatively edging down the path towards the pavement where the normal people walk, I looked around for a camera crew aiming a large bulb my way in a bizarre and elaborate Truman Show style prank, but to no avail. This rare and beautiful light was, indeed, the real live sun! My eyes trailed from the sky down to the edge of the road, where I noticed little patches of violet poking cautiously through the soil, huddling together as if to preserve their kind against the harshness of Manchester's tempramental temperatures and drunk students with Beer-Jackets on. On closer inspection, I realised that these miniscule purple buds of lovliness were actually crocuses. Real-live crocuses, waiting patiently for the sun to establish itself in the sky long enough for them to peel back their indigo overcoats, revealing their teeny black and gold outfits, filled with new-life. Well, pollen actually.
I made my way into the university library about 5 times slower than usual, just so as I could take it all in. The sun, SHINING, as opposed to just making it bright so that I can see my exhaled breath more clearly in front of my face. These new flowers were more than just snowdrops - the accompaniment of the winter chill - but rather spots of colour. Like nature's attempt at Impressionist art. And more impressively, I saw skin. I mean, human flesh, the exposed flesh of those who had dared to bare. Mostly forearms and a few bashful legs, but it was the product of some little miracle.
The indicator of the arrival of Spring is different for everybody. Some people love the increasingly frequent sound of birds, announcing their return from the south. Some (like my Swedish Galpal) love the cherry-blossoms. Spring's alternative to snow. Or confetti joining us and our spring-inspired smiles in holy springtime matrimony. For me, it's the daffodils that appear in clusters as if from nowhere. Their yellow heads with mini-trumpet mouths are the heralds of a new, sunnier, dawn as far as I'm concerned. The signifier of brighter days, happier faces, picnic invitations and life just being nice again. Just the sight of them is enough to make me head for the shorts, vest-tops, pretty (non-waterproof - ha!) sandals, and the sarong that you take to the park to lounge around on.
Thank fuck, cos I was getting really pissed off with having to cover up my outfits with 'warm' big coats all the time...
posted by KJT at 6:02 pm
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