Tuesday, 8 May 2012
Ah, spring. It's finally here. After escaping winter's frosty chains, life is renewing itself once again. The birds are chirping, the lambs are lambing, and the sun is gloriously shining through a thin, wispy layer of clouds. How it sickens me. Blergh.
I used to like the spring. I really did! Honestly! I still remember the morning commutes; head resting against the bus window, the sunlight would stream in, making me extremely uncomfortable because I had, of course, worn my coat after being unable to convince myself that London's never-ending winter had actually ended. By no means was it perfect, but that first glimpse of sun along with the realisation that spring had finally arrived still stands out amongst my favourite memories. But those days are behind me now. These ruddy foreign trees have ruined it for me. Pigs.
It's not like I have never had hay-fever before, but back in London it never went further than a muffled sniffle or tickley eyes. But here, here is something different. My nose is running so violently that it could stand a good chance of qualifying for this years Olympics! On a side note, if that was to happen, it could see a first ever correct use of the phrase, "And he has won it by a nose". Ha ha! Sorry. It seems to be the day for these awful puns. But seriously. Not only do I have Niagra Falls sitting in the middle of my face, but I am constantly fighting the urge to tear my eyes out! It's horrendous! They are so itchy! Yes, that's right! Pity me! Too right you should! And if you don't, we'll, that's not very nice of you, is it?
Although all evidence in this post would prove the contrary, I am quite a positive and cheery person really, and it does seem odd for me to hate the spring. In fact, it is extremely odd, because I don't much like the summer either. Why? Because its too bloody hot, that's why. I spend half the year complaining about the freezing temperatures, the lack of snow, the thick carpet of grey clouds, and the constant drizzle, only to complain about the very opposite when winter finally buggers off. That's the British way, I guess. We're never satisfied unless we have something to complain about, and when all is going well, we can always rely on the weather as back-up material for our rants.
Rather sadly, though, they don't seem to have that attitude over here. By my calculation (partially based on the fact that half my budget is suddenly being spent on tissues), spring has been here for a good few weeks, and I cannot detect a single sign of anybody complaining! What is wrong with these people! I am so sick of hearing, "Oh! What a lovely day!" every single ruddy morning. Shout about something! Complain! Nothing can ever be that perfect! What about the increased number of bees, the ice in your drinks melting too fast, mosquito bites, crowded beaches, poor service at the pool-side bar, or why don't you bloody complain about me complaining too much?! Show some sign of frustration! I noticed somebody the other day who was burnt to a crisp, and thought, "Ah ha! Here's somebody who we might be able to coax some misery out of!" After asking him how he got burnt, do you know what his response was? Did he begin to fire all sorts of curses at the sun and the makers of sun-cream? No. No he didn't. He merely smiled at me and said, "Had a party on the beach and fell asleep. It was so worth it though". What?! There is nothing, nothing in this world that is worth having to look like acne for! I don't know how much more of this happy-clappy nonsense I can take.
I guess I'll have to sit here then; cowering behind my bedroom window, too afraid to confront the pollen outside. See what I have been reduced to? At least I have you all, though. When all else fails, I can always rely on having a good old-fashioned natter to keep me believing. If nobody in this country is going to complain about anything, I guess I shall have to do it for them. A kind of national service, if you will. Now that's something I have no trouble showing my British side for.
I used to like the spring. I really did! Honestly! I still remember the morning commutes; head resting against the bus window, the sunlight would stream in, making me extremely uncomfortable because I had, of course, worn my coat after being unable to convince myself that London's never-ending winter had actually ended. By no means was it perfect, but that first glimpse of sun along with the realisation that spring had finally arrived still stands out amongst my favourite memories. But those days are behind me now. These ruddy foreign trees have ruined it for me. Pigs.
It's not like I have never had hay-fever before, but back in London it never went further than a muffled sniffle or tickley eyes. But here, here is something different. My nose is running so violently that it could stand a good chance of qualifying for this years Olympics! On a side note, if that was to happen, it could see a first ever correct use of the phrase, "And he has won it by a nose". Ha ha! Sorry. It seems to be the day for these awful puns. But seriously. Not only do I have Niagra Falls sitting in the middle of my face, but I am constantly fighting the urge to tear my eyes out! It's horrendous! They are so itchy! Yes, that's right! Pity me! Too right you should! And if you don't, we'll, that's not very nice of you, is it?
Although all evidence in this post would prove the contrary, I am quite a positive and cheery person really, and it does seem odd for me to hate the spring. In fact, it is extremely odd, because I don't much like the summer either. Why? Because its too bloody hot, that's why. I spend half the year complaining about the freezing temperatures, the lack of snow, the thick carpet of grey clouds, and the constant drizzle, only to complain about the very opposite when winter finally buggers off. That's the British way, I guess. We're never satisfied unless we have something to complain about, and when all is going well, we can always rely on the weather as back-up material for our rants.
Rather sadly, though, they don't seem to have that attitude over here. By my calculation (partially based on the fact that half my budget is suddenly being spent on tissues), spring has been here for a good few weeks, and I cannot detect a single sign of anybody complaining! What is wrong with these people! I am so sick of hearing, "Oh! What a lovely day!" every single ruddy morning. Shout about something! Complain! Nothing can ever be that perfect! What about the increased number of bees, the ice in your drinks melting too fast, mosquito bites, crowded beaches, poor service at the pool-side bar, or why don't you bloody complain about me complaining too much?! Show some sign of frustration! I noticed somebody the other day who was burnt to a crisp, and thought, "Ah ha! Here's somebody who we might be able to coax some misery out of!" After asking him how he got burnt, do you know what his response was? Did he begin to fire all sorts of curses at the sun and the makers of sun-cream? No. No he didn't. He merely smiled at me and said, "Had a party on the beach and fell asleep. It was so worth it though". What?! There is nothing, nothing in this world that is worth having to look like acne for! I don't know how much more of this happy-clappy nonsense I can take.
I guess I'll have to sit here then; cowering behind my bedroom window, too afraid to confront the pollen outside. See what I have been reduced to? At least I have you all, though. When all else fails, I can always rely on having a good old-fashioned natter to keep me believing. If nobody in this country is going to complain about anything, I guess I shall have to do it for them. A kind of national service, if you will. Now that's something I have no trouble showing my British side for.
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