It seems spring brings man to the woman. Perhaps it is the fecundity of the season, blooming buds and sunny skies willing them to appear once more. We are told summer is the season of (spontaneous) romance, I am of the belief it is wholeheartedly spring. The sun emerges from behind grey clouds and gets us excited again. Flowers burgeon with bursts of colours we can’t quite name, presenting scents we thought we’d forgotten. We sit beneath towering trees, and everything quietens, nature reminding us there are things bigger than ourselves.
Last month, I spent a handful of days outside of London for a family wedding. From Kings Cross, my trained sped past never-ending fields of creeping buttercups and other flowers all in varying shades of dandelion yellow. I leant my head against the window, surrendering myself to a series of imaginings—as one does when faced with a large window. The next day, after hours of walking (country roads will do that to you), I lifted my achy legs from my bed and began to get ready for the upcoming celebration of love.
After weeks of gloomy cloud and chilling evenings marking each passing day of supposed spring, the day of the wedding was an uncharacteristic 20 degrees. ‘It’s the perfect day for it’ I replied, each time a guest remarked on the beautiful weather.
Married in a barn plotted amongst miles of open fields, we laughed, cried, ate, sipped, danced, and loved. After the ceremony, we chatted under the blazing sun, respite from which could only be found in measured sips of ice-cold prosecco.
My gran stunned in a coral two piece dress and bolero, with a dazzling silver clutch to match. She meticulously monitored the number of glasses I consumed (at dinner I was admittedly triple parked) and sternly remarked that the glass of red with dessert was my “last drink”. I accepted, nodding profusely.
Coming back from the wedding and meeting my friends for brunch the Sunday after, we debriefed. “But doesn’t it just make you want to get serious?” asked a friend, after I recounted the beautiful ceremony, and the fact I was perhaps just one of three (?) singletons in attendance. Attending a wedding herself just a few weeks prior, she had texted me upon her return “after the wedding let me tell you, I’m on the husband hunt”. Grand displays of love will do that to a person. This feeling is amplified when such displays take place in a castle.
The Wallace Collection, May ’26
There was a pause as I reflected on her question. Yes, I suppose. Though I don’t share a preoccupation with marriage, a desire for love is certainly apparent. Demonstrations of devotion always make these romantic longings rise to the surface, whether it’s a gorgeous family wedding, or a particularly cosy couple in my local park kissing on rough grass.
“It didn’t make me want to find my husband, but I suppose my person?” I offered back, though arguably these two things are inextricably linked. Marriage seems too concluding at this life stage. All-encompassing love and a set of arms to hold me however, a dream. It doesn’t help that I am also reading Kakfa’s Letters to Milena. Unsurprisingly, I am in the mood for love. I can’t remain unresponsive to such sentiments, it is my way. To quote Séverine from Belle de Jour (1967), “it happens in spite of me. I can’t resist”.
After some deliberation, we concluded that there must have been a cuffing season we were not made privy too, a sorting of romantic pairs that the three of us were mistakenly left out of. After further whinging, our food arrived, and we were subsequently in better spirits about the state of our individual romantic affairs.
We behave as if we’re starving! Conditions of Love: The Philosophy of Intimacy by John Armstrong
Two weekends after this, I spent my Saturday afternoon along a green pocket of Regent’s Canal. Wanting to relish my senses, I took out my headphones once I approached the green, listening to the unfolding of happenings around me, instead of being audibly removed from them, as I often am. With my book, I sat down in between groups of friends sprawled out on jackets roleplaying as blankets, and a lone, older man sunbathing in just a pair of cargo shorts and Marshall headphones, intermittently rising up to light a cigarette before returning to basking.
To the left of me were two women in their early forties sat on a blanket amongst various half eaten pots of fruits and supermarket picnic food. They seemed to be long-time friends, this was obvious by the manner in which they spoke to each other. In a leopard print bra, speaking with a slight Spanish accent, one remarked “this is why I prefer having friends with benefits or lovers”. Her friend seemed unsurprised by this comment, as if it was part of her regular script. As discussions about the state of their mutual friend’s relationship continued, the Spanish woman, half-invested, took to adjusting her pin-up fringe. The monotony of monogamy for her seemed to be a bore. I thought them very chic.
Opposite, a group of early-twenties, all-Americans lay in various positions sprawled over each other, sipping from tiny cocktail cans. They debrief about each other’s individual crises that, from what I picked up, pertained to a remorseless, persistent ex for one, and a tyrannical situationship for another. Their conversations were abruptly obscured by a bachelorette party boat passing through the canal. A floating choir of hen’s sang along lustily to ABBA’s ‘Lay All Your Love on Me’ in unison. I looked up from my book, Conditions of Love, unconsciously humming the melody, smiling as they passed.
*
A thick dust of blue petals collect along the edges of pavement that lead to my house. This is the only characteristic of spring—petaled snow—that I have noticed as of late. The temperature is fit for a Winter’s Day, it is cold, dim, grey, uninspiring. It feels somewhat preposterous to be writing about the active spring season in this climate. We are suffering through our fourth fool’s spring. It appears nature has a final wintry interlude to showcase before she reluctantly offers up summer.
The austere quality of spring this year does however come with a silver lining. Such slight offerings of spring and its wonders allows us to especially relish in the sunshine-filled days. It offers perspective. Albeit we don’t need this perspective, but alas that is our fate resigned as Britons.
Sunshine will, however, make its triumphant return. When it does, do listen to The Very Thought of You by Nat King Cole, followed by Misty by Sarah Vaughan, and let your sun-splashed day be beautiful.
Are there still men amongst us who wish to be the happy wardrobe? Letters to Milena by Franz Kafka, pg87
Chloe x
Queencoc0 Talks 
Leave a comment