I hate February. It’s the month in which you expect spring to be near, but continuously have to realise that that’s far from the truth. The first Crocus and Narcissus shoot from the ground, but are punched back by a layer-forming group of snowflakes from the heavens. Cold as ice.
February tests your endurance. “Mwaha”, it says. “Here’s some more winter for you. Want to bike to the West? I’ll blow to the East. And I’ll break your bike again!”. Typically February. The month in which the freelancer is unemployed because the employer is depressed. The month in which birds have to flap their wings off in order to get back and play our background tunes. The month in which people here look paler than a ghost, except for the few bastards who’ve been spending christmas and January in a tropical beach resort. The month in which oranges become over ripe but strawberries are not even planted yet. February.
And how about the 14th? I absolutely hate Valentine’s day. If you’re not in a relationship, it sucks because everybody around you walks with a rose, while you are wondering which person of the other gender you like most, and if you should make the mistake of letting them know in one cheesy way or the other, only to hear that someone else just did that. But if you are in a relationship, your partner suddenly expects flowers and a massage at least. If there’s something I am not in the least fond of, it’s giving a person presents because of imaginary peer pressure.
Days are too short, but not convincingly enough to stay in hibernation mode. No holidays. The warmest temperature we reach, 13ºC, is just not enough for a T-shirt. The only upside of February, is that it’s the shortest month of the year. Amen to that.