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I seem to spend a lot of my time wishing it was another season. In spring, I want it to stop being windy and get on and be summer. In summer, I want it to hurry the hell up, stop being hot and get on to autumn. In autumn, I can't wait until the first frosts. In winter, I sometimes want some heat. It's that sometimes that gets me, though - it's not very often I want winter to end.
Yet that isn't really because I like being cold - although I do - or because I like the dark evenings - although again, I do - but because of this idealised idea I have of winter.
I don't know if the idealised winter is from early childhood - it might be - or from books, or music, or illustrations, or films, or even poetry.
It includes:
An image of beech trees above a ploughed field, frost on the ground, a spaniel nearby.
Open fires.
Stew.
Moonlight through high windows with curtains.
Warmth and yellow light.
Scarves.
Carrying firewood in a wide basket.
Writing longhand.
A warm bed with rails, piles of pillows.
And a feeling that seems undefinable.
So yeah, I want it to hurry up and stop being hot.
Yet that isn't really because I like being cold - although I do - or because I like the dark evenings - although again, I do - but because of this idealised idea I have of winter.
I don't know if the idealised winter is from early childhood - it might be - or from books, or music, or illustrations, or films, or even poetry.
It includes:
An image of beech trees above a ploughed field, frost on the ground, a spaniel nearby.
Open fires.
Stew.
Moonlight through high windows with curtains.
Warmth and yellow light.
Scarves.
Carrying firewood in a wide basket.
Writing longhand.
A warm bed with rails, piles of pillows.
And a feeling that seems undefinable.
So yeah, I want it to hurry up and stop being hot.
