As far as I’m concerned, today, Labour Day, is the last day of summer. In these parts, school starts tomorrow, so back to work I go. It’ll be nice to get a salary again, since the old bank account is getting a little lower than I’m comfortable with – okay, I’m lying. It’s a LOT lower than I’m comfortable with. I NEED to make some money again.
The weather is being totally cooperative in terms of the last day of summer vacation, as well: it’s absolutely pouring rain out. It’s just teeming down, like it normally does in November. It’s awful out there.
And it’s bloody cold.
When I went to bed last night, I shivered for a very long time. But I refused to shut my bedroom window. I refused to put on warmer jammies. I refused to throw an extra blanket on the bed. I just lay there and lamented how damn cold it was until I finally fell asleep – about three near-Arctic hours after I actually turned in for the night. Sensible, hey?
Then this morning, it was still cold. I eventually gave in and shut the patio door. I had to – it was less than 20 degrees C in the house. But I wouldn’t turn on the furnace, oh no. Tomorrow, fine, I might turn it on. But not today. Today it’s still the last day of summer.
Then there’s my feet. I must have the chilliest feet on the planet. PG certainly thinks so. It usually doesn’t matter what the actual temperature is, my feet are frequently freezing. In fact, when I was a kid, I thought it was perfectly normal to have cold and clammy feet. That was my default state. Who needs feeling in their feet? I didn’t know the difference, really. And it almost never occurred to me to put on socks. It still doesn’t. I have this weird mental block about it, I think.
Happy end-of-summer. Tomorrow it’s back to autumn. And work. And regular money coming in.