Novemberland

It's the end of the world. Trump is president, all the Brexit Beasts are out of the closet, our beloved Leonard Cohen joined Bowie and Prince in death. Fuckin' ISIS. Fathers carrying the remains of their children in plastic bags after another bombing session in Gaza. The destruction of Aleppo. Tinder generation ruining romance and real life spontaneous interaction. White supremacists and no fucks given about how black lives matter. The last of Rabbs' fringe-limbed tree frog has died (oh hello, Sixth Mass Extinction!). I wonder where can I find the ultimate escape to outpower this dystopian reality.

Romanticising Autumn/Winter doesn't make me feel less miserable. The prospect of running out of Vitamin D and energy, waking up in the dark and coming back home in the dark, having people turning down invitations for pints because it's too cold outside... It almost makes me miss Summer. Soon enough my socks will get so soggy they might grow mouldy. A cloak of dense clouds numb my senses. I'm suddenly a slothy cheetah with a sullen snout. What's the point of even stepping outside?

The days of dancing Fleetwood Mac on those overcrowded dancefloors are gone for now. I sit at my desk, seeking comfort in words, slurping pomegranate-flavoured white tea as the wind wildly howls. Joni Mitchell's Blue makes me forget about the world outside, the sad world beyond this sad bedroom. Curry leftovers pile up in the kitchen while I bury my head in a bunch of pillows and dream of tea parties where we drink rhubarb tart craft beers and eat Port Salut and everything is nice, sugar and spice and rainbows and dandy dancing dodos and unicorn popcorn.