It's Sunday morning, and it's been a slow one. I woke up aiming to get loads done, but I got sidetracked searching for a set of pictures that I can't seem to find. Now I need to get out and walk the dog, but I'm procrastinating instead. Therefore, I've decided to give myself exactly five minutes to refresh a bit, before getting on with my day. These five minutes are going to comprise of listening to Sleeping At Last (my latest musical love, there will be a post about this at some point) and creative writing. Which will be posted here, because I haven't posted anything creative in ages. Enjoy.
Maybe it's an English thing, to have a life that revolves around the weather. You get so used to it, to sighing at the overcast skies, to cheering at the smallest glimmer of sun. Or maybe it's a writer thing. Pathetic fallacy. Maybe it's both.
The last good weekend, the sun shone throughout. It was hot in London, hot in my room that weekend, hot in Portishead. We got covered in mud, my cousin and I, had to wash ourselves off in the tiny bubble of water that fed into the sea that was really just gloop. By the time we'd caught up with the others, we'd dried off again. We wore daisy chains and rolled down hills. It was summer. The next day, the weather turned. Not quite a year of gloom, of grey skies and raindrops like tears. There were sunny days, sure, but the sort of sun you'd have to be British to enjoy.
Come the next summer, the weather had turned again. Bright skies, finally. No clouds, or at least, not ones that could cover the sun, because it shone too bright, too vibrant.
My timer's just gone off. Time to get up and about!