The secret of my perkiness?

Regular followers have expressed wonder and worry at the up-beat, positive and downright chipper face I have shown to the world in my last few postings. What's wrong? they enquire, concerned for my mental health. Isn't it obvious? Why, winter's fast approaching.

Pardon? You no doubt riposte. Has the helioholic finally lost it completely, or switched his affinities towards dark days, long nights and and ever longer thermal pants? Not at all. This always happens, especially after a lousy summer (so often, then): as winter approaches I cheer up. Not because I like winters, but it means I can give up hoping. And when I give up hoping, I give up despairing. I'm a different person. Indeed, I've just watched a weekend weather forecast with complete indifference. It doesn't touch or torment me. They informed us it's going to be rainy and grim and cold this weekend. But, unlike 4 weeks ago, I have no right to swear at the TV, curse the presenters and whatever mean little devil whose tricks they catalogue and collude in. Had they told me it was going to be fine it would be a welcome bonus, not a right; a cause for happiness, not the righteous indignation has gripped me for the last 4 months. As the weather worsens I simply wrap up - in all senses.

I have reverse SAD. While real sufferers start to get depressed at this time of year, I get on with life. Now, don't get me wrong. I don't like winter, and I simply loathe Christmas. For me it is a rehearsal for death (you see, it is still the sunshine Scrooge under the Santa outfit). Two things you can't avoid in life: Death and Christmas. Unless you do what I try to do each year, hook it to a Muslim country where it's warm and stay toasting til the coast is clear. But as the vile exercise is now extended over a three month period that would ruin me. Anyway, even there there's no escape (unless I smuggle myself into Mecca). I once spent Christmas in Cairo, and the Egyptians insisted on wishing me Merry Christmas. I once even had to flee from a Santa who wanted to hug me on the streets of Casablanca. I do not like winter. I do not like cold, I do not like dark. But as we've been having these conditions in summer for the last 2 years, I'm simply more prepared to tolerate them in their proper season, and without the deluded desire for anything better. Not that my relieved resignation means I've forgiven and forgot the outrage of these 'summers'. Nor 1985, 2000, 2002 for that matter either. Oh no. It's all gone in the book (it has actually), the pain, the anguish, the desperate longing for justice, have left deep deep scars. But 2007 and 2008 are now scars, rather than wounds. They have become history.

Besides, there's booking the Christmas escape jaunt, and maybe a cheeky little top up in between. For as Shelley put it, if winter's here, you can still tan your behind....

Carping daily

Seize the day exhorts the poet-philosopher, but how can you when every day slips sloppily from your grasp and plops into a puddle of lost Time?

It may seem absurd to carp on about lost sunshine - and, believe me, I'm heartily sick of the sound of my own voice on this one, and would dearly like to put some of the love back in this blog - but sunshine is merely the symbol, life is the substance here. The sun marks our days, or would do if we could see it. The absence of the sun in what is supposed to be summer more truly reveals us to be mere walking shadows than if we could actually see them striding to meet us in the mornings and evading us come nightfall. There is more than fear in a handful of mud. It's fine for those philosophers, loafing around under the blue skies of Greece or Rome, to establish such principles. Their days were worth the seizing. Ours are put on hold. Life is what slips by as we are waiting for the weather to improve.

It'll clear up next week. No it won't. Next month will be better, so they lie. And before we know it, it's gone. The shops are already putting out their Christmas decorations, like so many nails in the coffin of summer. And so we mothball our hopes for another year, losing much more than a chance to wear the clothes we bought in spring. But that's OK, as they won't fit us now. We grow old, we grow old. To avoid the puddles we keep our trousers rolled. Sunshine is life - it is the source of all life -; but it has also become the light source of 'Lifestyle', a seductive package we've all bought into. The ads that will soon be sprinkled with fake snow fantasies of Dickensian delusion, have just finished selling us other desires, a-sparkle with fatuous golden promise to mock our most cherished dreams. Only marketeers believe in seasons in this country. So refuse. Refuse their Christmas. Resist their new season lies until they deliver what they sold us last season. If we can't have summer, then we shouldn't have to endure Christmas. Do so, and we might just resist Time itself. And although we can't make our sun stand still, or even visit us, yet we can make him run*.

*Robert Mighall, 41 years old, single, overworked and under-sunned is not having a good time of it. He apologises to the estate of T.S. Eliot, the shades of Andrew Marvell, Shakespeare, et al, the English language and the blogosphere, his long suffering mother, the weather men and the climate who mean him no personal ill; and finally his neighbours below, tormented by his demented tread and mournful wail, and ever-vigilant for the kick of a chair and the judder of a rope.