Almost a Warmth in the Wind

When the light shifts so, too does something in the brain. In a funny we we spend all year, every year, chasing nostalgia into the next season, always remembering what it felt like, always imagining what it will feel like. At the edge of every change, we try to hurry it along by force of will and wishing. Sometimes our memories become confused. Like this: something subtle about the evening makes me think, as I stroll down the Cowley Road, of Boston; it's still cold out, you couldn't say it's Spring, but my body remembers the beginning of the thaw and a part of me thinks that what I'd like to do is walk to the end of Newbury Street and get a peanut butter frozen yogurt and eat it whilst examining the hopeful but still impractical fashions in shop windows.

So I go to G&Ds and buy a pint of Kenya AA Coffee ice cream and observe, as I meander home, the arrays of plastic buckets, charity shop dresses, lines of bicycles, glowing pub windows. I wear linen trousers and feel slightly, but not massively, under dressed. It's a very enjoyable place to be, that place where every day is longer than the last, where the sudden appearance of the sun is not inconceivable, where there's almost-but-not-quite a warmth in the wind.