Trapped

Dressed in wispy whites, polka dots and resplendent in floral overtures the shop windows of London have decided that spring is upon us. Bikinis worthy of St. Bart’s, peep toed shoes and dresses that would do the wives of Stepford proud beg to be bought. The burgundies and golds of Christmas have been replaced by citrus and the sea. Santa and Rudolph have made way for Malibu Barbie and mopeds. I walk past Miami Beach, The Parisian Left Bank and Marrakech. Names trying to exotify the cheap, Taiwanese garments being hawked.

But this spring blooms only in the glass enclosures covered in fake sand and redolent plastic daffodils. It borders the streets but does not spill in to it.

For on the other side of these Windolened barriers the world is colder. The sun does not shine. The trees are bare - branches sharp and angular like the teeth of a comb housing jaunty hairball nests. Feet blinded by wool socks and boots – denied the views the peep toes promise. The living shrouded in layers of cloth – hiding from the cold.

I hurry on. Fighting the urge to shatter glass and set spring free.