A host of golden daffodils
So picture it: there I am wandering lonely as cloud. You know, like I do. When all of a sudden, what do I see? Only a crowd! A host! Of golden daffodils! That totally matched my outfit!
“Quick, Terry,” I said. “Take my photo: let us immortalise this magic moment forever, and not with a cruddy poem, either!”*
(*Forced to study Wordsworth at university. Not a fan.)
So we did. And, you know, it’s a bit like Where’s Waldo? for fashion bloggers, such is the perfection of my camouflage, no? I mean, you can’t even see me in some of these, can you? It’s almost like I AM a daffodil. Another dream realised!
These photos were taken on Sunday, otherwise known as The Best Day of the Year So Far, Not Even Joking. You see, I’d spent most of Friday unpacking all of my Spring clothes, and trying to find creative ways to insert them into the limited storage space in the house. By the end of the day, I never wanted to see another 50s-style dress again (Seriously, why did I have to buy so many dresses with huuuge skirts? Did I not realise how much of a pain they’d be to iron when they’d been in storage all winter?), and there were clothes all over the house – tucked under the living room rug, hiding behind paintings, that kind of thing. Note to self: GET A BIGGER HOUSE. Because fewer clothes just isn’t an option.
When I went to bed that night, it was with fear in my heart. I’d completed this switchover of mine a couple of weeks earlier than usual, you see, and I knew – I just KNEW – that by getting out all of the Spring stuff and packing away the winter (Or most of it, anyway: I did leave out a couple of coats etc, just in case.) I was seriously tempting fate, and that we would likely wake up the next morning to a complete white out.
And we did.
Luckily for me, the white stuff was fog, not the snow I’d been expecting, but even so, my fears were confirmed: I had single-handedly prompted a new ice age – or a second winter, at the very least. Now we would never see the sun again, and it would be ALL MY FAULT.
That night, the clocks moved forward. And so, apparently, did the seasons, because we woke up on Sunday morning to Spring. And I know I complain a lot about winter (This is where you look politely astonished and say, “Why, YOU, Amber? Complain about winter? Surely not!”), but I don’t think even I had realised how much it had been sucking the life out of me, until it finally ended and Spring arrived. I was like a little kid at Christmas, I was so excited.
(Note to people who are about to scold me for picking wild flowers: the ones I’m holding were ones which had been trampled on or something (not by us, I hasten to add) and had their stems broken. I brought them home and put them in water because they were going to die anyway, but I didn’t pick any healthy ones, because I would’ve felt like I was murdering them, and I am many things but I am not a flower killer…)
Terry and I both had a ton of work we’d planned to tear through on Sunday, but the fact that this one day might be the only sunny day we get this year made us realise that to spend it stuck in front of a computer would be a tragedy. So, instead, we threw caution to the wind, dressed like daffodils (Well, I did anyway. Terry doesn’t really do “daffodil dressing.”) and headed out to enjoy the sun. It was the happiest I’ve been since, like, August or something, seriously. And it was kind of surreal, too: the leaves aren’t even on the trees yet (in fact, the BUDS aren’t even on the trees yet), but when we took Rubin to the country park in the afternoon (yes, I changed into flats for that part), people were actually SWIMMIMG in the river. Swimming. In the river. In MARCH. I don’t think I’ve EVER seen people swimming in that river, let alone at a time of year when it has been known to snow heavily. Everywhere we went, though, people were out in their summer clothes, having barbecues, being all happy and smiley and saying to each other, “This might be the only summer we get, you know!”
It wasn’t, though. Because it was sunny and warm yesterday, too. And today. And I, my friends, am as happy as a clam. Happier, even. (Seriously, it must kind of suck to be a clam, don’t you think?)
(Dress, River Island, last summer; cardigan, local shop, many moons ago; belt, stolen from my mum; sunglasses, eBay; shoes, Carvela ‘Gypsy’, c/o Sarenza [available here])