Days like this are for using words like peachy-keen! and minty-fresh! and sunny-d! without adopting tones of hipster irony.
Days like this my Irish hallmate Alec tells our chaplain to “Feck off!” and Father John smiles benignly in return.
Days like this I want to dive headlong into cliche and sit in the park delicately, sipping iced tea and reading Wordsworth. Wearing something suitably floral, and embarassing in hindsight.
Days like this I wish I could blast Pavement’s Summer Babe from the top of the BT tower and then rappel down, with glorious boinging motion.
Days like this I feel incredibly tempted to start laughing hysterically and interminably in a public place, and see if anyone joins in.
Days like this I contain multitudes.
Days like this, and I’m cooped up in my hall library, studying the law of land registration.