Oh God, It’s Monday
There’s enough coffee left in the carafe for a third cup. The morning papers are on the kitchen counter, their sections reshuffled. The BBC’s World News is being read over the radio. It’s still early in the day and it’s dim inside the house, enough so that we need to have a few lights on.
We’ve 15 days to go before the first day of autumn. There are not enough yellow leaves on the lawn to bother raking up, too soon; the city’s still green. The patio furniture and the umbrellas are still out. And Ann’s outside, wearing a black coat and frantically picking our modest crop of peppers and tomatoes. Snow swirls around her hooded head and shoulders.
Snow, wet and heavy, lazily blown spring snow. The trouble is, the days aren’t getting longer and summer isn’t on the horizon any time soon. Even though it’s accumulating on roofs and vehicles, it won’t stay. Still, we’re just eight days into September. Winter’s harbinger is early to the skating party. The tabby cats are peering out the front door and muttering in French, Qu-est-ce que fuck? Equally vexing is that the weather’s exactly the same outside the back door. Emergency sirens scream and car alarms bleat from elsewhere; nothing ever happens when conditions are pristine.
I’m of three minds this dark and snowy morning. Despair is easy. I can begin pre-dreading the long frozen nights that lay ahead. A second alternative is to stand shirtless in the middle of the street screaming at the sky. ‘Is that it!? Is this the best you got!? Bring it on!’ Such a display of defiance could also provide a bonus benefit. Our more annoying and eccentric neighbours would be warned I’m dangerously batshit crazier than they are and they’d best keep their distance from hereon in.