August Update

This is the end of the first complete months at A Lady of Letters. It's the end of August.

It signals an end of other things, too. The end of the Summer, a fact of joy for me and sorrow for so many. And it signals a start. A start of a new school year, a fact of joy for me and sorrow for so many again.

The end of the August is a time full of promise and yet full of memories. It will never be the thirty-first August 2023 again, and yet it will be the thirty-first August 2024 in only 362 days, now.

My attachment to August is far from strong. I can wave August goodbye easily, mostly because I'm so eager to wave September hello.

The threat of a heat-wave is, slowly but surely, diminishing (although MET seems to be saying another thing). Does that mean nectarines and peaches and all the best berries are going out of season? Yes. But it also means pomegranates, one of my favourite fruits, are just coming in, I can stop feeling tempted by people lapping up gloopy ice-creams around me, and I no longer feel strange drinking a cup of steaming butterfly pea tea instead of cool, more weather-appropriate peach ice tea. It means I can claim the weather's getting to me when I stick to my favourite 'sport', ballet- rooted firmly in doors- instead of darting off to play seasonal tennis in the seasonal sun. Speaking of the sun, the end of August also sees the end of my obsession with sun cream. Those big dark blue bottles aren't going to be gathering dust in my cabinet, certainly, but they aren't going to be pulled out more than once, maybe twice, a day. And if I forget my smaller, less effective but more portable Clairol tube at home, its not the end of the world.

But, more than anything, the end of August signals the perfect time to write. I have less time to spare, certainly, than I did in the holidays, even considering impromptu day-trips and exam-revision.

In a way, though, that's a good thing. Other occupations beside writing serve as a distraction. They help stop me from burning out.

And aren't Autumn and Winter just the perfect seasons to curl up with a cup of tea and a book (whether its one you or someone else has written) and enjoy the paradox of the cold blast from the window at your back and the warm one from the fire, or- in this modern world- electric heater, at your feet?

So, I look back upon the sunlight and the trees and the flowers, through the thin but tangible barrier of glass. But it is not with regret.