When evenings start to get a little bit brighter every day, and nature finally shows off its best outfit of flowers and colours, I am, simply put, much happier. Storing away the winter collection of wool jumpers in all shades of gray, thick black tights and tall boots; and unpacking my light trench coat, flats to be worn with bare feet, and pastel-colour blouses is as much a superficial ritual as it is vital – representing the tangible sign that the darkest and gloomiest part of the year is finally gone. When I was living in Italy, March was usually when this change was taking place. Now, not much so.
No complaints, London is truly beautiful this time of the year. All parks and front yards are in bloom, and daylight is abundant. Yet, as I wander around in owe, admiring the show of magnolias, daffodils and forsythias, I ache for the springtime I know and love to come for good, for the wind to turn balmy, and the sun to be truly warming.
