I hate hot weather. I don’t just hate it, I loathe it with a burning intensity that sees me frantically googling ‘places that stay cold all year round’ and contemplating moving there. I become a different person in the summer. It’s when my mental health is at its worst, and I spend practically all day moaning to whoever will listen. Honestly, it’s a goddamn miracle that I even have friends come the end of August.
You haven’t known joy until you’ve been down the beach on a dark, stormy day with the waves crashing against the cliffs and the wind buffeting around you and creeping through any holes in your clothing until every inch of you is shivering. Then it’s always home to warm radiators, plates piled high with crumpets oozing butter and jam, cups filled to the brim with hot tea, bodies piled onto the sofa with blankets and pillows to all watch a film together. That is, if we can actually decide on a film the whole family wants and it doesn’t end in someone marching to their room and declaring they hate the whole family.
I crunch through Hyde Park over the fallen leaves and I remember all the times that I’ve crunched through these leaves before, like a casting on stitch of memories in my mind that gets stronger and stronger every year. I travel back home, nose tinged pink with the cold, and look forward to going down to the woods that’s gorgeous in the summer but special in the autumn. I watch the leaves change colour on the trees outside of our office and I feel that frisson of excitement that reminds me no matter how bad life gets, it’s ever changing and autumn will always come back eventually, basic bitch PSL in hand.
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