Summer, or the sound of misanthropy
I live in Hobart for a reason.
It’s nice here.
Located that ideal distance from Antarctica, our weather is a perfect balance of rain and cold that is so adored by penguins, leeches, and hermits. The cold and rain keeps people indoors, limiting crowds in public places.The lack of sun provides Vitamin D deficiencies that satisfactorily keep the public subdued – it’s sort of like the “Pax”, but our resultant Reavers have two heads and are isolated to the fringes of Launceston. Basically, our weather maintains order.
Unfortunately, every year, this horrible thing happens. It’s called Summer.
Suddenly the sun in shining, and the birds are singing. Oh those birds! Every morning they wake me up with their sounds of happiness. It’s enough to make you want to kill someone. People start leaving their houses as their seasonal affective disorder wears off and suddenly the shops and streets are filled with other humans. And those humans are happy, and they want to socialise. Like the taunting bird song, the sounds of their happiness drift through my windows – their summertime music, chatter, and clinking beer bottles. There are no more nice rainy, isolated walks along the beach. Instead the beaches are packed with smelly creatures, and anyway, the sun… the sun… it is hot and bright and…
I freakin’ hate it.
Come back Winter! Come back… I love you.