Winter

Winter is here. November the first and it is wet and grey and cold and windy. The worst combination, guaranteed to provoke waves of emigration, in desire at least.

I loathe winter and see my way through it as a series of fences that need to be crossed before spring. Halloween was the first and now we are lurching along the muddy track towards the dreaded festivities in late December. I find it hard even to say the words, but each time I venture out, i am bombarded with the tacky tinsel coated rubbish that indicates the three month run up to the biggest anticlimax of the year.

Once that is gone and the rubbish all consigned to landfill, I then have my birthday to endure. I never look forward to that, probably because it is stuck in the middle of my least favourite month, but at least when that is done, much of winter is behind.
I'd like to sleep through february, it has no saving graces at all, though frogs seem to find it possible to begin their procreation in the icy ponds. Daffodils appear in march and they are so welcome with their promise of spring.

Actually I think I'll go to sleep now - wake me up in April.