I’m cabined by discontent at the moment – not crushing, but
close and clinging. I feel ill at ease physically, mentally and emotionally. I
think a lot of it has to do with the inclement and changeable end we’re having
to August.
I’ve disliked August all my adult life. I was thinking about
it today, and decided that if April is the cruellest month, August is the most
dishonest. It struts its summer status, while bearing on its breath the first
chill winds of impending autumn. The trees are still replete with green leaves,
but the sound of their shaking is no longer soft, but sibilant. The verges and
field margins are noticeably thinning and becoming littered with the browning
wreckage of summer’s once-vibrant colour. There is nothing summery about a British
August, whatever the calendar says. August lies.
September, on the other hand, is usually just what it’s
supposed to be. I like September.
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