Yesterday marked the first day that British women put on their black tights.
It is officially the end of Summer. (I have absolutely no time for people who use calendars, or ‘official days’ to decide when the seasons start and finish. I cannot live my life by these wildly speculative and changeable measures. I am a very consistent and practical person.)*
At a dinner last night with various other, black-tighted ladies, I overheard several people complaining about Winter’s arrival. I was able to listen closely to their conversation, whilst maintaining my own, because I have recently realised that ‘being a good listener’ just involves not speaking when someone else is talking, and leaves one completely free to otherwise engage with the rest of the room/ your internal monologue.
Frowning vaguely in the direction of the person I was ‘listening’ to, I eavesdopped intently on their grumbling. ‘I can’t believe Summer’s over,’ One of them said angrily. ‘And now what will we do?’ Leaving aside my friend’s inability to perform even basic forecasting, I never quite understand people’s fury that Summer ends.
Summer is not like Ryan Gosling, where every moment is a magical, wonderous joy-ride.
Summer is the first man you ever dumped- unpredictable, unreliable and, despite all its good points, not ‘the one’.
Summer is the first man you ever dumped- unpredictable, unreliable and, despite all its good points, not ‘the one’.
Which is why, when Summer finally stops taunting us, stringing us along with its feckless promises of sunshine and happiness, we should welcome Winter with open arms. Winter is the best boyfriend you ever had. It is comforting and reliable and stays with you for ages. It lets you wear huge jumpers and get fat and never makes you go out. I don’t want to get ahead of myself, because it’s early days, but Winter may just be ‘the one’.
Which is precisely what I would have said last night, if I hadn’t been distracted by the growing ladder in my black tights. ‘Ah well,’ I remarked loudly to my dinner companion. ‘There are always some snags in the beginning.’ Which he was somewhat suprised by, because apparently he had been talking about Putin.
*In entirely unrelated news, I have a set of kettlebells that need to go to a good home*
unfashionablylost 