With the F-word in full run, it’s time again to tremble before the inevitable death of the year; be that of goosebump freeze or just plain neurotic fit for wet and constant darkness or both.
Below the reign of the F-word, we ought to dig out more bright lightbulbs and vitamin D and select yellow-shaded goggles for late F-word bicycle tours to camouflage the greyness.
During the depression of the F-word, we panic and seek closer to the community to babble about how great the summer was, only to be confused about the speed summer has gone hiding deep into the memories in fright of the F-word.
Under the oppression of the F-word we shall inevitably come to think about the fast closing Christmas and its daily rush of people and merchandise before it all calms down to semi-quiet celebration where kids don’t buy the idea that getting taller makes gift heap looking smaller; a survival story bright only if the F-word allows itself to turn into soft white winter instead of wet black chaos with those scattered faceless lights gloating around.
In the flow of F-word torment it’s time to dodge zombie infestation filling streets with dark clad creatures wandering quietly with empty eyes reflecting only the ambient dark gray and ears craving brighter sounds; a single innocent glimpse into these hulks may turn you into part of despairing masses.
In the dominion of freezing F-word, it’s time to arrange closets and switch to the wintry fashion, only to get that late and extra F-word warm breeze.
Under the tyranny of F-word, we build our layers carefully and grab the umbrella, only to meet the horizontal torrent of freezing water with bouncing wind that seeks marypoppins out of everyone with umbrella and reveals how it was built.
Declared open season for freezing F-word, our old cars awaken us into their sheer age by creaking everywhere and popping dashboard lights in first darks; and as the service tells us our tin cow is now safe and sound for winter, we feel lighter only in the wallet.
In the sanctuary of F-word, we feel the rush of cold mighty refreshing oxygen in our nostrils and turn it into hi-octane fuel.In the storm of F-word colours under ever-lowering sun we capture the detonating imagery in our heads and memory cards, enjoying the free show.In fresh cold darkness of F-word we take a sidestep from the lights and admire the more or less flickering universe above us; maybe even finding use for our optical equipment, storaged most part of the year.In the F-word part of the almanac we may or may not notice that it forms only one part of Vivaldi’s ‘Four Seasons’; and carry on through the Fall.