I also become alarmingly poetic.
No, but really, I love this time of year. I always have. There's something satisfying about it, in a way that no other season is. Sure, I like spring. Spring is fun, because you've had the deep dark and depressing days of January and February and, thank goodness, they're coming to an end. Plus, Spring brings with it a cornucopia of bank holidays.
Winter I like, but only at the beginning. I like it in December, when it comes adorned with the jewels of Christmas, but it loses its novelty when the lights and glitter become the grim reality of January. By February, I'm over it. Unless there's snow, of course. If there's snow, I'm happy as can be. And, no matter how bad winter gets, there's always hot chocolate.
Summer I like, but only cautiously. Whereas snow turns me into a grinning, dancing, spirited elf, summer heat turns me into a sticky troll. I hate it. I become slow and stupid and sickly. I switch off. I can't leave the house without having to be thorough with sunblock and hats. It's an endurance test, made only somewhat bearable by those long evenings, Wimbledon, and Pimms.
But autumn! The colours, the scents, the flavours! It's the season, more than any other, that assaults the senses. It's the earth being self-consciously glamorous, showing off all the marvellous things it can do, before the monastic winter takes over. The earlier onset of night is merely cosy, not yet threatening.
And, there's something else about autumn. Something magical.
But enough of this! More of magic and mysteries tomorrow. Notice how I'm not apologising for having abandoned my blog over the summer. It was summer, it was hard work to get anything done. Besides, I was busy changing my life and working on my book. And yes, more of that later, too.
