The first year they only cancelled Spring, but we didn’t mind because without the interim season we only reached Summer sooner, and we were all the happier. In the Summer we stripped down to our singlets, set up barbecues, and wore down the thriving grasslands, bending their will to our barbecues and picnic rugs.
The next to go was Autumn. At first, the petitions to bring back the weeks of golden leaves were strong, at least strong enough to be raised in parliament, but the public soon grew tired of the campaigns and decided that they would rather forego it altogether rather than hear about all the people complaining about its lack for another decade. If it was gone, it was gone. Like afternoon teas and cold cream, Autumn quickly became seen as a marker of a bygone era, and all those working towards progress in society saw it as something worth letting go.
A generation raised on only two seasons no longer felt the lack of the other two. The transitions no longer felt relevant, felt like something only the grandparents complained about and it became desperately uncool to reminisce about the in-betweens when what was left was only the best. Who could complain that they missed chicken eggs when they had all day access to caviar?
A hundred years passed before the rebellion began. It started small, in backyards and community gardens and beneath abandoned railway tracks, but within a decade a counterculture had formed. No longer did only extremes seems acceptable, but the people missed the colours that happened outside of the stark reds and whites. Green bulbs, purple shoots, pink berries, and yellow flowers were once again cultivated. They reached cult status, each windowsill exemplifying the connection to the past they each represented. Nuance returned unconditionally.