I was walking back to my flat yesterday, hunching my shoulders against the wind, when I spotted something.

A crocus.

Not just the green bits that sprout like weeds and look oddly like the tops of onions. Those came up a couple of weeks ago. No, this was the actual flower.

There were a few of them, dotting the side of the footpath, just as bright as can be. Yellow and definitely impossible to ignore.

Seriously? It’s not even the middle of February. I have only seen about a quarter inch of snow here in Edina. The days hover around the same temperature and alternate between sunny and drizzly. It’s hardly felt like winter at all. But to have flowers springing up? That’s just wrong.

Of course, back in the States, there is snow everywhere. California? Snow. Washington State? Snow. Colorado? Snow. Ohio? Snow. Snow is everywhere but where I am. I love winter. And that’s just a bit depressing.

It reminds me of a Douglas Adams character. In one of the books, there’s a man who always gets rained on. Wherever he goes, rain. Different kinds of rain, but always rain.

For me, it’s a weird travelling phenomenon that causes the problems. Whenever I travel somewhere, the weather is always what I’m hoping it won’t be. The place I left usually gets the weather I’m hoping for. This happens all year round. I love the grey and the cloudy and the sort of thing that keeps me wrapped in a blanket while I write. Yet I’m usually surrounded by sunny and warm and the sort of thing that makes me feel bad for staying in and writing.

I know, I know. The curse of “good” weather. How terrible.

Still. I wouldn’t mind a bit more winter.

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