If only we could press fast forward and skip over the next few weeks of wet greyness, just this once, pleading exceptional circumstances. My diet is beige and brown things on other beige and brown things, and like those frogs that slow their metabolism to nothing in freezing temperatures, I am as inert as a stone. Instead, I extend a listless arm for my phone and scroll until rising cortisol levels and the dog’s bladder force me vertical. ![]() Mornings are equally bad: the duvet feels like a buffalo has died on my chest and getting out from under it requires an act of will and strength that seems beyond me. With little to do and no scope for planning ahead, the 4pm sunset sends my mood into freefall. ![]() We still are, it has lasted five decades already. Frosty mornings and dark days hold no fear for me, while summer means prickly heat and freeform anxiety, chafed thighs and bad fashion.
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