With those tights, I'm not surprised Richard III feels discontent; in fact, I'm surprised he doesn't speak in a squeaky voice as well. Of course, we all know that his “winter of our discontent” was the Wars of the Roses but it's a cute way to voice my own discontent on this first day of winter.
It's 7 o'clock in the morning. Standing by the window, I can only see the jetty. Everything else, the river, the opposite shore, and the forest beyond, are swallowed up in the thick and cold and swirling mist.
Unlike Richard III, I'm wearing a thick, loose-fitting tracksuit which keeps me warm and has no effect on my voice. But also unlike him, who with the next line - '... made glorious summer by this son of York' - seems to celebrate that unhappiness is over and wonderful summer (Edward IV) is here, I know that my summer is still six months away.
Six months of hibernation and self-flagellation for having come this far south. Welcome to my winter of discontent!
