How the holiday is not because of
weather – obviously – but also an echo of the
previous year and the insidiousness of a
cycle with expectations. It should be this
predictable but one lives in the optimism of
planning and need, those preoccupations
filling time on a regular basis. Rain is as
relentless as the grey, and even occasional
sunshine only illuminates the coming again,
like a Greek chorus, repeating.
There are those besting it in preparedness
and stoicism, lips stiffened by congenital
uppers, but I have downed tools
refusing to work on this fantasy.