Why some mornings I cry like a little girl for no good reason at all

Apologies for the long gap between blogs. I have been making money, and being on holiday, this is my only excuse, and it is the one I am sticking to. I hope it suffices. I am not really sure where this particular entry is heading, but humour me, I wish to talk about the phenomenon of mourning the end of summer. I admit this seems an odd thing to write about as we veer into august in the midst of blistering temperatures, and when I have not willingly worn socks for over a month now, but I was reminded of a thing on monday morning, and I shall try and describe it now.
What happened was this, I woke up and prepared for my return to work after a fortnight off. It has been about a decade since I last took a whole fortnight off, and so it had felt like a proper summer holiday, like you get when you’re a kid, and the summer lasts forever. Well, not that good, but pretty great. After a fortnight of blistering temperatures, in which I had pottered about in flip flops and shorts, it was no fun to yank on a real pair of trousers and force my feet into shoes and socks. At this point some smart arse is going to point out that I regularly go to work in shorts and flip flops as well, and they are right, I do. However, on monday I woke up to the rain lashing away at my windows, and it looked to be a pretty awful day.
The rain almost lifted my spirits, as I figured I may as well be at work if the weather is going to turn back to standard devon summertime. However, I was thinking of the mornings I had spent on Jersey with my wife the week before, strolling through glorious sunshine and going to see marvellous and wonderful things. And then I realised I was going to have to drive to work, and wear a coat, as it was really proper raining by this point. I hate driving to work, it is a lovely walk, and it cheers me up to walk in the morning (well any time of day really) but this may be a subject for an entirely separate entry later on. Anyhow, I got into my car, and had left a lilac time album in the CD player, it played me this song.
Salvation Song (please follow the link, it’s the most fragile and beautiful thing you are likely to hear today)
Now, I love this song, it is a beautiful and lovely piece of music which cannot fail to touch anybody who hears it. And on this occasion, it got me, I very nearly turned up to work in floods of tears as I was so unnecessarily emotional over the whole end of holiday, crappy rainy morning, beautiful love song thing I had just been through. Which reminded me of when I was a strange and unusual child, really.
Seriously, I had utterly forgotten this, but when I was a kid, pretty much every september without fail, I would find one morning on the bus to school in the first week back, my eyes would fill with tears, and I would be heartbroken over the death of the summer. At least that’s what I put it down to, I might have just been overly emotional, or on the edge of a nervous breakdown (might be on one now as well, who can tell?) either way, I would pretty much cry in front of people for no good reason, and not be able to explain why (not the coolest thing for an awkward and geeky 12 year old with a serious Dr Who problem). This still happens if somebody plays the wrong song at me at the wrong time. I am old enough now to admit that it was Richard Marx on the school bus, one very shameful september. I have never liked that song, and I never will, but if I hear it at the wrong time, I will howl like a little girl with a kebab skewer through her foot.

My emotional instability aside, those long summers when I was a kid, when we’d go out and play in rivers, and just do nothing in bright sunshine for what felt like years, are really worth getting upset about when they’re over. Even when it’s just a fleeting fortnight in your thirties that felt a bit like the late 80s somehow. I am glad I can mourn the good and lovely things, and am not dead inside. Now pass me the flip flops, I’m having cider for lunch again.

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