Well, spring is here.

I won’t say “finally”, because everybody says that.  But what I will say is that it’s about bloody time.  For god’s sake.  Never has a winter been so miserable.  It’s not the cold: it’s never the cold.  It’s the literal days weeks months of greyness.  Of darkness.  Someone tell me why I live above the Tropic of Cancer?  Where the sun is not a right, but a luxury?

It occurs to me that I voice this complaint every year: that winter takes it out of me.  And it’s true.  I dislike the dark days of winter and I bitch about it every year.  Fine.  I admit it.  And it’s about time I found a way to cope.  Lest I go mad (er).  I have been giving serious thought to saving up my pennies and moving to Tobago to live as a beach bum.  People do that right?

I’ve done enough in my life to warrant a break, haven’t I?  Can I change my name to Dr. Hermit?  Ok, I’ll need some money, that can’t be avoided, but I don’t need much to keep me going.  I already mostly live on fruit and coffee as it is.  What more does a girl need?

Well… a girl needs something to hope for.  And a girl needs flowers.  At least this girl does.  And that distracts me from my rant and brings be back to spring.  I went for a walk this morning and took some photos in the Palace Garden behind the flat.  And I have to say, the smell of spring is intoxicating.  It makes me feel twitchy, energised, restless and hopeful for something.

Even the swans were out last night, gathering on the canals, looking for that something.  A mate?  Some bread?  Whatever.  It’s spring, and there they were en masse… searching.

No wonder I feel a bit mentally unstable these days.  Spring is in the air and it seems the gypsy in me is craving the out of doors.  The sunshine.  The road.  So I went to Brussels last weekend to see my friend Kismet.  I’m off to London this weekend to see Summer.  I’ll be in Le Mans for Easter with Adam.  And I suspect I’ll be taking another wee weekend break (or two) in April before my trip home to Canada in May.

If anyone out there with tropical blood has any advice on how to survive the Northern winter without stabbing someone, please let me know.  So far it seems I’ve unconsciously decided that travel is the answer.  And that’s probably for the best.  After all, the less I’m in the house the less time I have to sharpen my knives.