Some decades ago, one of us attended a fashion show at a no-longer-extant, moderately fancy department store. The ludicrously pretentious presenter insisted on introducing items and accessories as being perfect “for that of spring.” We, of course, stole the locution. Surfing, for example, is the perfect sport for that of summer.
And expanded upon it. A good session bitter is all I really want for that of England.
All this to explain how I can be looking so happily forward to the deep snows, frigid temps, and blustery gales of a New England winter. It’s because I am so profoundly glad to be done with that of fall.
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