The idea that the weather and people’s moods are connected is quite old. Do you agree? If yes, how does the weather affect your mood?
It’s my belief – my firm conviction, in fact – that only three things stand between the British and nationwide, annual-onset SAD: football, rampaging weekends in Amsterdam and winter breaks on the Costa del Sol. All three of which they seem to embrace with unusual fervour.
And who can blame them? If I were forced to endure months of wet, grey skies and temperatures so bleak they made my nose run, I would assuredly crawl into a hole and rot.
Which is to say that I hate winter with a passion unmatched by any other hate in my life.
I hate crawling from my doona cocoon in the morning, I hate the inevitable moments of naked deep-freeze before and after the shower; the torture of swapping warm clothes for cold pyjamas each night is enough to keep me out of bed far longer than is good for my circadian rhythms. And the worst insult? My unlovely feet insist I treat them like delicate incubating eggs, to ward off the simmering spite known as chilblains.
Today is the first official day of winter. The sky is blue with a puffy cloud or two, the current temperature is 21.3C – but I know it’s winter, and that’s enough to plunge me into deep depression and unalleviated grumpiness: the knowledge that it will get worse before it gets better. (And what’s more it’s Sunday, which has a stultifying torpor all its own.)
Whether I qualify as a genuine sufferer from Seasonal Affective Disorder, or just a bolshie old lady conditioned by past cruel winters, is entirely beside the point.
I do not like thee, Winter Fair.
For why? I neither know nor care.
I only know I cannot bear
Your snarling, joyless face. So there!