The weather surely can. I thought it was spring. March is said to be the first month of spring and the sun and the sunshine and the breeze warming through my formally dressed body made me dream of summer.
Not today. The snowstorm caught with London and me. The weather decided to remember and relive those unforgiving moments of wind pushing you at the crossroad to cross when cars have still not stopped.
I have been bought two times the present of a clock. Mostly because it is hard for me to wake up in the morning.
Despite my wealth in clocks I cannot seem to get one to work and the other one to stop.
I wish I could rewind them both to my own beat, the beat of this very word that you are reading now, the beat of how, the beat of not now, the beat of return, the sweet return of the water war in garderns smeeling of cement and uncontrollable children ramaging flowers that have not yet grown.
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