For the First Seven Years in February

There are alternative worlds (I’m referring to literature. Don’t get your excellently frilly knickers in a twist if you’re a single universe theorist or whatever those who don’t believe in the many worlds hypothesis brand themselves as) where timing and weather and that is ever so slightly different to our own. In Narnia, for example, for a very long but well documented time it was held in relative stasis during a period of winter running up to Christmas but never quite reaching it.

While this is my own personal nightmare (I have no truck whatsoever with the season of winter. I’m a fan of chunky knitwear and still hold a childish delight when it comes to snow. However, as commercialism spreads Christmas earlier and earlier towards autumn and even September time my eyes are in danger of being over-rolled), there are plenty of other examples of funky seasonal behaviour that I can totally think of.

In the reality of the Song of Ice and Fire (popularised as Game of Thrones but I’m a stickler for accuracy whenever it suits me to be so), seasons can last for years and there’s an ever present fear that the next winter might be the one that lasts a generation or two. There’s also hope for the eternal summer or however they refer to it which I cannot help but feel would be terrible. Then again, whenever excessive heat threatens I feel myself reverting to melted puddle form.

Anyway, I can’t help but feel that one of the worst months to get stuck in for the rest of time would be February (and not just because it’s the title I’ve come up with). It’s ages away from my birthday, no Christmas but relentless pressure for couples to devise ever more inventive romantic stuff. Plus the weather’s a bit rubbish. I bet you wouldn’t get through as many as four years under such conditions, let alone seven.

Song choices courtesy of: The Script, Norah Jones and the Goo Goo Dolls


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