No one ever names their new-born, February, do they? January? It was a name in a song from the 70s I remember . . . in fact I just looked it up: Pilot was the group. I didn't press play on the youtube arrow as I can just about recall the annoying tune. If I heard it again it would seep into my mind and stay there for months, an un-wanted guest.
Anyway, yes: June, april, May, lots of elderly ladies called after these months.
March? Quite a good male, striding out in a Heathcliff sort of a way, name. But I don't think it's used.
July? bit fetid and sweaty perhaps, same for August. September, bit of a mouthful, could be shortened to Septis or something — not good, October, getting a bit chilly, nice colours though. November: Drizzle and evenings dark at 4.00pm, No.
So, what was I going on about . . . oh yes. February.
It is without doubt, the worst month. dark, cold and wet, this year anyway. Christmas and New Year long gone, new season in the not too distant future. I keep thinking about buying a new jumper as the moth-eaten ones that should have become dog beds are still on me. But it's not long now, spring is waiting in the wings for winter to forget it's lines . . . and paff, sun, stuff growing, birds chirping.
Or is it near? Last year all the blossom sallied forth to be annihilated by sharp frost and icy winds, the wood pile had an emergency re-fill and all bird life had to re-seek refuge in their discarded sleeping bags.
Here is a lovely picture of me in my best Feb wardrobe.
Coat from Emmaus, jeans from a clothes swap event, shoes from vide grenier, jumper . . . 'terre d'esperance, I think. Things worn for maximum warmth and not many other reasons, nice scarf from Katherine though.
Roll on spring, no coats, no jumpers, and re-emergence of that round bright thing in the sky, hopefully.
Wettest year so far on record since 833.