Let's be British and talk about the weather, shall we? About the endless days of cold and grey. About the sharp wind that tucks itself underneath your rib bones and inside your shoes. The permanent purple patterns on your fingers and toes. The daffodils so depressed by the lack of spring that their yellow bobbing heads lie, wearied, on the ground. The icy blasts that linger around windows left slightly open, under the gaps of doors and at the bottom of your duvet first thing at night. The small, shrivelled attempts at blossom on trees that still look like they'd rather be in December. But mostly, about the cold, cold grey, that steely air that greets you every morning.
I am so fed up of this weather. It's mainly why I haven't posted for such a long time. Outside just looks the same, there are virtually no signs of spring, nothing that inspires me to get my camera out. It's like groundhog day. All I have been doing these last few weeks is working, cooking, dancing around the kitchen, eating, sleeping, listening to the radio and waiting for the spring.
There was this one day where the sun shone. It was bitterly cold of course, but there were blue skies. And enough sunshine to bring all the forsythia flowers out of hiding. A golden yellow promise that maybe warmer days are on their way.
