I was driving back late this afternoon from an appointment in Smithfield, stopping en route home only to buy cat food, a baguette and wedge of Brie (so everyone’s covered for dinner, as Patrick is out tonight with some old friends). The baguette and Brie are for me, although Faolan tried to talk me out of some. No dice, big guy. Eat your kibble.

In any case, the snow was lashing down in big ostentatious snowflakes mixed with rain, the roads were glistening, my windscreen was fogging up. Snow started to cling to trees and grass. I did not find this amusing. It’s April tomorrow. April, people. We’re talking jonquils and daffodils and early tulips, baby squirrels, frolicking goddamn bunnies, little girls with pastel pintucked sundresses and Mary Janes with white lace trimmed socks and boys in seersucker outfits skipping around on lawns with baskets full of chocolate eggs and pink and green petits fours waiting for them inside accompanied by cold lemonade (ohmygod, that was a flashback to my youth). I still remember my first love, freckled Simon, the son of the Australian ambassador, or possibly the attache – he might have been boasting. Men do that. Ours was an ill-fated relationship as he was quite fond of placing frogs in my personal belongings. But I digress.

I resented the weather deeply. I wondered whom I could blame. In defiance, I put a CD into the car stereo of Greek music. So the bouzouki was playing, and a husky voiced singer was yearning for the wine dark seas and olive groves of her miniscule island in the Aegean – actually, it could have been the wine dark seas and grape leaves, my Greek is pretty rusty. Whatever. It pissed me off that it is snowing and that I have somehow found myself wintering in New England. Who does this with any good sense? Given my druthers, I would take Patrick, my children and all the animals to my villa on Cyprus for the spring. We would eat stuffed grape leaves and feta with black olives, ripe tomatoes and cucumber in tzatziki. Mezedes on a painted platter, on a table in a courtyard overhung with grape vines and bougainvillea. Music would be playing from some nearby taverna. We would leave sandy tennis shoes outside when we walk across the cool tile floors, and admire each other’s sun kissed shoulders.

I would not have to look at snow. I would not have to wear fleece. Or smartwool socks. I could wiggle my Pompeii Purple painted toenails in warm sand and simply admire the sparkling turquoise and cobalt and emerald waters of the southern Aegean, or the rooftops of whitewashed houses above the harbour. My children could play in the sand and rocks, and splash in the water with friendly loggerhead sea turtles and make up stories about merpeople and sea faeries. Patrick could wear his water wings and his SPF 200 sunscreen and we could both write our novels. Katie would argue that the Tempest must surely have originated here. Ian would quiz everyone on our knowledge of the most puerile of the Gods behaviours.

Dammit that I do not in fact have a villa on Cyprus. That is probably also the fault of whomever decided snow was acceptable on March 31st.

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