Rabid Pet Hates

 With a strong determined beat of its abstract wings, the temporal rises into the heavens, soaring ever higher, swooping and ducking as it glides across the skies. Time has flown and it is already new born October, who like a baby is yet to dentally develop but will soon quickly do so and with it, the biting cold start its chilling attack.
 The leaves on the tree have shriveled and crumbled, slowly transforming from the smooth beauty of a fair young maiden to the wrinkled repulsiveness of an old man's ball sack. The elegant lushness of the green trees fading to be replaced by the smudge of orange and brown like the finger painting of an artistically untalented child with leprosy.

 Indeed the series are changing. The year has driven out of the warm safari of the summer series to travel down the darkening road of the series of autumn and very soon we shall enter the dark cold tunnel that is the series of winter. Yes, that's right, I did say "series of winter" and doesn't that feel unpleasant and perverse? Nonetheless if people are going to start replacing the term "series" with the word "season" then I don't see why I shouldn't do the opposite and see how they feel.
 The use of the term "season" when referring to a British television "series" is a pet hate of mine. A pet hate which often growls and strains on its leash while out on walks, very occasionally breaking through the metal bonds to pounce upon any stray Americanization of British Television, sharp toothed mouth violently frothing and aiming for the jugular.

 One such recent occasion was when I was walking towards the massive ugly square construction with a totalitarian atmosphere that constitutes the school dining hall with one Underling Sheep (An extremely normal individual, the picture perfect image of the default white middle class boy of average intelligence, wit, athletic capability and social ability) and Hunter Swift (A young lady whose life appears to be governed largely by bridge, botany and bi-curiosity. A fast shuffler, mild stalker and notable as the only female wearing a waist coat). We were discussing the unsatisfactory nature of the previous Doctor who episode in which the Pond's bid their farewell.
 "I mean there are so many ways to save them," I complained, listing briefly the many solutions to the problem of Amy and Rory being trapped in Manhattan that I, a mere Earthling of sixteen years, thought of within the first five minutes of the end of the episode. Solutions which somehow the several hundred year old Timelord had failed to find.
 "Yeah," agreed Hunter swift, a little way away, across the courtyard, stands the great hall upon whose towering face is embedded a clock. Its horological mechanisms ticking away restlessly, a merciless movement of cogs and gears, tick, tick, tick, tick, "I get the feeling they're going to be brought back in about five seasons." tic- Time stops.
 "Say that again," I mutter, clenching my fists. Closing my eyes as I grit my teeth. Underling Sheep, having heard one of my rants before, stops beside me, eyes fixed pleadingly on Hunter Swift to get it right the second time.
 "I get the feeling they're going to be brought back," she repeats, a tone of confusion entering her voice.
 "In?" I whisper, my blood pulsing through my veins.
 "In about five seasons?" Comes the wavering reply from a now thoroughly confused Hunter Swift. Underling Sheep lets out a despairing sigh, letting his eyes fall tiredly to the ground. A moment of silence. I click my knuckles and draw in a deep breath.
  "ITS SERIES NOT SEASON! FIVE SERIESES TIME! NOT FIVE SEASONS TIME! I GET THE FEELING THEY'RE GOING TO BE BROUGHT BACK IN FIVE SERIESES TIME!" I roar, voice bouncing off the walls of the Quad, several pupils pausing to look round.
 "Oh shut up!" wails Hunter Swift, "I can use season if I want!"
 "No," I demand, waving my arms in frustration "It is a British television show, it will therefore be referred to as series and not season!"
 "I'll do what I want," she retorts, voice volume almost matching mine, "Besides YOU MAKE WAY MORE ERRORS THAN I DO!"
 As I open my mouth to form some sort of retort, one boy in the year above walks by, stating as he goes, "It's FAR more, not WAY more. Far!" Disappearing through a door within the next moment, leaving us to stand speechless.

 PS. Hunter Swift later gleefully pointed out "series" is a plural term and hence the correct term was "five series time" not "five serieses". What a petty individual.