It's 12:57PM and the skies are grey. In about three and a half hours, it will be completely dark outside. I sit and watch, as darkness creeps into the room - minute by minute. I have barely started the day but it is almost time to draw it to a close.
I turn on the lights, turn up the heater, strip off my Primark jumper and PJs, and put on a fresh set of tank-top-and-shorts. Maybe, this will feel more like home.
But it doesn't. The impulse to smash the fluorescent lightbulbs grows bigger and bigger, as I come to realise that summer is not something that I can conjure.
I need to lie flat on the sand, to let the intense heat of the afternoon sun scorch my pale English skin. I need to drown myself in perspiration, and choke myself with humid air that makes it hard to breathe. I need to know that the sun rises at 7AM and sets at 7PM every day; that I have 12 - no more and no less - functional hours. I need to step out of the house in my army admin tee, FBTs and flip flops and not shiver like a wobbly plate of jelly on an amateur waiter's hand. I need to crave for a refreshing cup of iced black tea macchiato - not a warm cup of Earl Grey, damn it - after a long walk under the sun.
But for now, the least I could do is to put on my Spotify playlist and write. At least this feels like home.
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