I can smell it, I can see it in the eyes of small fluffy creatures, the fruit store owner and even in the eyes my boring flatmate (Who I only thought only looked forward to brushing her imaginary cat and the biweekly bible and bumper sticker mail-order catalogue). Spring is a mere hop, skip and Brazilian wax away. Yes, we may still be shivering in our leathers and gazing enviously at the sizzling roast we just pulled from the oven, wishing our head be so golden brown, crispy and covered in rosemary and oil.
But in three weeks time I can consider wearing shorts and thinking about how translucent white skin will look when skipping to the shops for Beef Stock during the first spring day. Kind of like snow blindness in khaki. I have the new flip flops that I got as a gift at fashion week, staring up at me optimistically from under my bed, much alike a virgin at a strip bar.
I have already formed a mental list rivalling the dead sea scrolls of what I need to get my hairy little hands on for Summer. New bathers, check. New sunnies, check. Interesting but fun love affair, dream on. Funny thing about summer love, they are a lot like sunglasses. Very hard to find the right one, but so easily lost.
