The Changing of the Seasons and the Tides of the Sea

When I was a smallish child and we were leaving our little house in Buckinghamshire to move, lock stock and barrel, as we did every three years, this time to go to live in Singapore, I watched my red-headed mother cry. It was an unaccustomed sight, as she was, and is, an old-school, notinfrontofthechildren type of parent. When I asked her what the matter was, she said she would miss the seasons. As we spent most of my childhood in hot climes (in the Tropics, as people used to say then), and her complexion made her uncomfortable in the heat, it had been a temporary joy for her to experience the changing of the seasons for a brief twelve months. And here we were, heading back to relentless sun, she condemned to hats and kaftans and finding a spot in the shade where she could worry about whether we had enough sun-lotion on (we hadn't) or whether that last dip in the sea had washed it off (it had).

I think about that about four times a year as the seasons turn. I'm lucky to like that. Most people in Britain spend so much of their time wishing our climate was more like southern Spain. But I like the little landmarks of the year.

I like the dithering about whether to put on the heating. I like the ritual shifting up of coat thickness. I like the days drawing shorter, leading to those lovely afternoons where all the lights are on, and when you get home and close the doors you are warm and cosy inside - hot chocolate and marshmallow evenings. But then I'm a home-bod. When everyone's here and we're not going out for the night I lock both locks on the front door, turn the porch light out and close the porch door. And I think "battening down the hatches', which was my Dad's phrase for shutting out the outside world and gathering the family in safety.

And then when the street-lights are on before six, it's time to start thinking about Christmas. My daughter loves Christmas. In mid-summer when, little fair-skinned blonde that she is, the heat becomes too much for her, she puts on Christmas films, reads Christmas books and sings carols because she says it cools her down.

After Christmas you have the new beginnings of the New Year and then magically, the crocuses start to pierce the winter ground and you have the thrill of springtime. The best flowers bloom in the spring in my opinion, and are too quickly over. But then comes the heady buxom glamour of summer, lazy days, sticky nights and parties. And it all starts over again.

I'm sitting in my new office in the attic of our house. I've just turned the heating on very low and my feet are being warmed under the desk. There is a blue sky and a chill in the air outside. It's good to be alive.