Spring in the garden was always an exciting time for Jeff. It was difficult to tell just by looking at his face because, as with most cats, his face was perpetually tuned to vicious contempt. Living with Susan had made him a cynic but when the sun shone on dry grass, he could feel joy.
There was nothing he liked better than dancing from one patch of sun to another, punching bees out of the air and attacking blades of grass that had the temerity to wave at him in the breeze. He would sit, studiously observing the transit of a troubled snail, wondering what the creature was, why it seemed so helpless and why it reminded him so much of Susan. Why was it so slow? Why did it appear to lack direction? All questions he would happily pose of Susan if he were able to meow coherently enough. Jeff locked eyes with the snail and they shared a moment of understanding, he took pity on it and lightly tapped it’s shell as if to say “keep going son, you’ll finish your flower pot pilgrimage one day”.
As the weather was on the mend, with less rain and more heat, he joyfully returned to his favourite outdoor activities, namely sitting on the wall and tormenting the old man across the street. He knew perfectly well the codger didn’t like seeing him strutting up and down on his property but he was in a wheelchair so there was fuck all he could do about it. Jeff would just gaze in through his window, nonfucked, occasionally digging up his plants to hide a shit before hopping off to challenge some ridiculously large seagulls recently returned from their winter holidays.
For Susan, seeing the first day of spring reminder on Facebook meant that she felt justified in immediately cracking out the factor 50 and flip flops. After all, it might still be only be 7 °C at midday but if it says it on Facebook, it must be true. In fact, at the first glimpse of the naked sun, she’d squeezed into a pair of hot pants and summer shimmied her way down to work in amongst hatted and scarfed people wondering if she’d lost her fucking mind. It didn’t matter that she could see her breath condensing in the air before her with goose bumps so large, her thighs resembled bubble wrap, it just didn’t matter, the sun was out, therefore summer had arrived.
When she arrived at the shop, she booted up her laptop and began working on invitations to the “first BBQ of the year” party. It was incredibly important to her that she was the first person within a six mile radius to have a BBQ (and the first person to drone on about it constantly) because she valued the pointless shit in her life more than anything else, like, for example, her stationery shop which hadn’t been in the black since the hole punch was invented.
A lot of people who passed by the shop and saw the poster up saying “first BBQ of the year” would question amongst themselves why you’d even contemplate having a BBQ in March unless you lived Down Under, which none of them did. They could tell that a March Barbecue would end up being less “Barbecue” more “come eat burnt burgers inside my house-ecue” and so dismissed the idea entirely before heading into Iceland to stock up on disposable grills, compounding their hypocrisy further by buying hot dog rolls as a “taste of things to come” purchase.
She spent the rest of her day getting to grips with Mobile Strike. She considered herself a Candy Crush girl (and everyone else given the mountain of invitations she sent out) but there was something about Arnold Schwarzenegger poking a large red button containing the word “strike” that she just could get out of her mind. She found it as fascinating as she did arousing and so wound down the day annihilating villages full of civilians with cruise missiles.
Then she bought a lava lamp on eBay because she forgot it wasn’t 1998.