Despite what the old farmer's almanac says, for me, there are really only two seasons: when I need to turn the kitchen light on to eat breakfast and when I don’t need to turn the kitchen light on to eat breakfast.
It is currently the season of waking up, igniting the gaslamps to dispel the foggy gloom, then spooning mellow fruitfulness into my mouth until I feel alive enough to leave the house, to brave the cobbled streets beneath a sunless sky, to call a Hansom cab and wend my way to work.
At least that's what I like to pretend I'm doing. Actually, I'm slurping coffee and eating Greek yogurt in the kitchen with a parade of halogen bulbs illuminating my cup and bowl. But since the nature of reality is always ambiguous in the early morning who will deny me a caffeinated Victorian fantasy when the cock crows?
Yet this nebulous, liminal, almost enchanted stage of my morning commute only lasts until I realize, with dawning horror, that I've forgotten my bus pass again. Once more I have romanticized drowsiness into whimsy but only ended up befuddled. Still, I'm doing it on a full stomach, even if I also forgot to flick the kitchen light switch off before I left.
