Downwind of the Dandelions

 Downwind of the Dandelions

Thursday the ninth of May is now a date that holds more significance to me than my own birthday. Hell, even Christmas. Okay, neither of those things are true. It was a great day, don’t get me wrong. But my birthday? Or Christmas. Perhaps the two greatest days of all time. We all know why my birthday rules though. I mean, me. It’s the origin of me. I’m the best. You get it. If I need to explain to you why Christmas rules, please stop reading now. The words in this story are going to have more than two syllables sometimes so this really isn’t for you. May the ninth. Let’s just get into it.

 The first thing you need to know about this day was that it was unfathomably warm. Warm in May might not seem like a big deal to a lot of you, but you should keep in mind that I am English. I was raised on having 5 days of warmth spread throughout July and August for the first 15 or so years of my life. Until global warming reared its head, I knew nothing but damp and grey. Needless to say, I was not thrilled by the prospect of a 20 degree day. Not a strong start, you’re probably thinking. How on Earth does this day break his top three of all time? Well, we’re barely 200 words into this story. I’m getting to it. 

I woke up, bathed in sweat and misery, at about 12:30pm. Not exactly bright and early, but fairly reasonable if you take into account the 03:00 am bed time. My mood was quickly lifted, though. I went from downright grumpy to unequivocally elated. That’s the sort of thing that happens when you wake up and the first thing you see is the world’s most beautiful woman. That’s right folks, I found her. Stop the hunt. Apologies to all those out there who think they wake up to the most beautiful woman in the world. You are wrong. Unless we’re waking up next to the same woman, in which case I need to have a long and confusing sit down with the love of my life. Anywho, where were we… oh yes, unending devotion to my partner and oceans of sweat. The standout theme of my life these days, apparently. We had already planned to go on a picnic today, and it was too late to make actual breakfast. Sometimes, life throws you a curveball in the form of an impossibly tricky predicament. And sometimes, two people reach the same answer to their problem at the exact same time, and it spawns an impossibly magical moment you will be sure to look back on fondly when you’re recounting the events of the day. 

“Picnic for breakfast?” we asked each other in impossible synchronisation. The only thing stopping us from winning the gold for synchronised swimming at the Paris 2024 Olympic Games is the ability to swim. Halfway there, really. fifteen minutes later we were up and dressed, ready to tackle the picnic we had yet to really plan. After an intense few seconds of rigorous planning, I proposed the game plan. She would head to Farmfoods and buy the food, and I would go to Morrisons and pick up my antidepressants. I ran out the night before and you would not believe how unbalanced my chemicals are. I packed the blanket and my speaker into a bag and handed her an empty one for the food, and off I went. Now, we’re at the part of the story that involves a bit of a roadblock. The bag I packed, with the blanket and the speaker, was her bigger tote bag. Said tote bag had all her bits and bobs in it, including her wallet. Now, I removed the bits and bobs before I packed it. However, at some point in that rushed affair I made the genius play of taking her wallet out of the bag- only to put it in the smaller pocket on the same bag. I forget why I did this, but I’m certain I had a reason at the time. Unfortunately, like most of my memories- that reason has been lost to a sea of uh-oh’s and oopsie-daisies.

I’ve elected to remove the going to the pharmacy segment of the story. It was uneventful and frankly rather dull. Let’s cut to her patiently awaiting my arrival outside the Farmfoods adjacent to my flat. I have never seen such a look of complacent irritation. Sure, she loves me. She loves me a lot. I am starting to get the impression that doesn’t make her completely immune to the lovable quirk that is my scatterbrain. Until that is an actual problem, I am electing to ignore it completely. Like a healthy, mature adult does. Anywho- the food shop. Now, I don’t think I ever shopped for a picnic before that day. And if she had, she remained bad at it. We left the farmfoods with what is essentially the greatest buffet to grace the plains of this green Earth. A quaint packet of impossibly crumbly almond fingers, an almost tardis-like box of breadsticks, 2 bottles of Lucozade because we are both deathly allergic to water, a simple tray of chorizo because we’re animals and last but not least- the pinnacle of any adult meal- cheese strings. Oh what’s that? Gordon Ramsey wants my number? He wants me to go on live TV so he can bequeath me the iron chef title? I thought so.

After we crossed the dastardly train tracks, the picnic spots became ours for the choosing. Awe-inspiring plains of grass as far as the eye can see, each one taken directly from a French Renaissance painting. The English countryside is truly unbeatable. Naturally, we chose the flattest patch of grass with the smallest dog poo to a litter ratio. The rest of the day was a blur, really. A premium display of coming-of-age romance moments. Carefree giggles playfully backed up by the Grammy award winning soundtrack to 2011’s The Muppets. Polite nibbles at our godly feast, so as not to reveal to the other how truly ravenous we were.

But at last- we reach the moment. The moment we were sprawled along the blanket, the only barrier between us and the heavens being the natural world around us. The sun’s blistering heat transformed into an incandescent splattering of warmth. The grass had become soft and idyllic. The wind had calmed to a gentle breeze, carrying the remnants of this year's spring to their new homes- just in time for the cycle to begin again. We were perfectly downwind of the dandelions, I thought to myself. Wow, what an amazing title for a piece of prose that could be. It’s so painfully charming how the best ideas come to us when we least expect it. 

Two hours later and I’m here, sitting at my computer writing this story. So, what makes this day one of the greatest days of your life? Or did you just say it for dramatic effect? First of all, I say everything for dramatic effect. I’m an artist. My life is the greatest play never written and I’m the star. And second of all, who was the only real recurring character in this story? What was the only real recurring theme of this story? Her, and love. That’s why today was one of the greatest days in my life, and that’s why as soon as the clock strikes midnight today is going to be replaced by May tenth. If every day with the person you love more than anything isn’t better than every other day, especially the ones without her, I don’t think you’re living life correctly.

But what do I know? I’m only the genius nineteen year old writer who plucked Downwind of the Dandelions out of his arse.

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