August (221/365)

I've never liked August. When I was a child, August was summer holidays stretching out in endless boredom (I was the weird kid who actually liked school and learning things; while I appreciated having more time to read in the holidays, I always ran out of books). When I was at university, it was being back at my parents' house, working a tedious summer job, missing my friends and my real life. And now it's the dead period when "everyone" is on holiday, when all the interesting things at work get put on hold because no-one's around and I finally run out of ways to avoid the really tedious things like trying to persuade people to be on exam boards next year.

August is always a strangely anxious season. Still summer, despite the rain; hot when the sun comes out, but no longer the carefree summer of June and July, the summer that stretches out ahead as if it could go on forever. August is a battered, shabby summer which knows that it's going to have to cede its place to autumn before too long. There's a hint of crispness in the air first thing in the morning, and the night always falls earlier than you expect it to. It's hard to stay in the moment in August. Flowers are giving way to fruit, and how can you ignore the darkness of winter looming on the horizon?