Spring is for wasting time and looking fine

Firstly - Happy St. David's Day everyone, it's nice being Welsh for once - it is the first day of spring if you are a meteorologist, and not if you are an astronomer - but who gives a bumbags about you, Patrick Moore? Right.

Given that Winter is now officially over, we can get on with dressing in our fitted blazers and tight jeans, sporting sunglasses and light scarves despite the fact that the British weather rarely breaks out the sun/warmth until around August 23rd, after which it promptly ceases. However it seems to put most people in a good mood, which I suppose is useful, in that it has its uses, it has its effects.
The sun and the blowing trees and light heather and lavender smell again - it effects an embracing, perennial mindset, along with the buttercup, which lasts a good long time; however the mindset is not actually chronic in nature, it is acute, but subjectively eternal. The years seem short but the days are long. The summer is not quite here, but the sunlight glancing off the windows and roofs of the houses and buildings is like the smell of baking bread, wetting the appetite for the culinary orgasm that the hot July sun will bring.

Out come those well-dressed horrors, now - the sandals, the sunglasses, the shirts; Oh! The nipples on sculpted chest. That boy would make a fine bride, were it not for that head of his which lacks any marble. He is beautiful, and I hate him. His man at arms, equally vaccuous, is tenacious and bully, ferocious, and excaptional in bed. I hate him too. They must retire to the beach, where the sun, sand, waves, screams of childish glee, may caress their stomachs and shins, echoing through the gasps of waspish Middle England.

Ah yes, Spring is here.