I have always reveled in my hatred of early spring.
Winter in Scandinavia can be dark, dismal and bitterly cold, but there is nothing quite as off-putting as streets and parks emerging from beneath the snow for the first time in months, ready to reveal themselves in all their ugly nakedness.
And that pallid yet relentless light that has left the winter landscape in peace for so long. Day by day it invades our cities, not only helping to uncover all that depressing muck, but making it the unwanted foci of each and every passer-by.
You see stark but average skyline. I see defeat.
Finally! The Truth Comes To Light!
They were door to door sock salesmen gone wild and rampant and above all silly all along…..
…or rather a month past, and a wall of boxes and furniture with it. “La Petite Mort” is just bull-shit. Every time you move a part of you dies – usually from a combination of exhaustion and exasperation – and there is no post orgasmic state to land to safely land you on pink fluffy clouds on the other side either…
After four flights of stairs and only the actual moving left
Oh the atrocity! Oh the woe of such a mishandled and faulty excecution of a double cappucino order!
The size of a pint, with granular froth and bitter burnt traces of caffein amongst the swirls of overheated milk… I would order another if not for the fact that I fear it’s potential likeness to its rejected brethren.
Instead, one seeks solace in champagne…