It's mid-February and Montreal is a frozen tundra and I am buried in essays on Sir Gawain and French presentations and feature profiles and research reports, but I can't help but put on a song that makes me long for colourful skirts and lavender flowers and Kensington market...

I want to find a grassy knoll and just lie there for a while.

Three coffees later..

So this morning, I woke up at precisely when I needed to be up, maybe a few minutes earlier, bounded out of bed, halted to a stop in the middle of my living room, rubbed my eyes, threw up my arms in frustration, swore to myself and exclaimed, "Screw it, I don't want to put on pants" and jumped back into bed, where I woke up five hours later.

It's just one of those days, I suppose.