Of Spring, and the where of it

Yesterday was a giddy sort of day. I was off work, the sun was shining, and it was warm. It felt delicious.
Today, a nip is back in the air, and the sky looks as though it has given in to the inevitability of a stubborn, lingering after-winter of chilly grey days. I fear we will land suddenly into the fully-fledged humidity of summer. My opinion of humid summers would be clear to you, dear reader, if you could see my face as I type those words. 'Humid' (grimace) 'summer' (shudder). I am an autumn girl, preferring crisp mornings and cool evenings warmed by cocoa and wood fires to languid sultry days spent clutching a sweaty glass of lemonade.
However, I look forward to this time of year all winter long, when we can watch the slow creep of returning life in the leaves and blossoms, the reopening of garden centres, the nearly forgotten mosquito-like hum of distant lawnmowers. I love the feeling of utter lightness of being that comes from stepping out of the house without boots and sweaters under the big coat and hats and scarves and gloves. I feel as though I could drift along on a current of air like dandelion fluff. Which is why this dance of two steps toward summer, one step back into winter is a challenge. I'm sitting here at my desk wearing fuzzy socks and a thick sweater when I'd far rather be strolling along the waterfront smiling at the sun from behind dark glasses in sandals and a juicy-coloured cardigan.
A short while ago I tucked boots and hats away, bringing out the summer shoes in their place. Now I'm itching to clean out the car, scrubbing the floor mats clean of winter dirt and emptying the back of scrapers and extra blankets.
A sure sign of spring.