Summer’s Almost Gone

Summer has almost gone now; we have reached the end of July and August will bring, for those who live in Northern Climes, a cooler shorter daytime before the fruits of September come to pass.  Continue reading

The First Day of February

I am glad that today is the first day of February, forty one days after the shortest day in these latitudes. It has not yet been a very bitter winter, just a cold and dark one, and when the sun did shine it shined low in the horizon filling our eyes with spite. Soon the sun will bathe us and the Spring will come, soon, very soon.

These Dog Days Are Welcome

Daylight makes you happy. After many weeks of rainy darkness London is warmed slowly and very modestly by daylight as the days in the planet’s Northern Hemisphere become longer. The spring equinox is almost here and lighter morning and evenings seem to cheer people up, contrasting with the warm but gloomy winter that is passing. Continue reading

The Shortest Day

In London today is the shortest day and I have an essay as short as the day. Continue reading

An Expected Day

All the leaves are gone and the sky is grey. This is what we expect in London at this time of the year. Little changes. We have also come to expect that our great British banks will be fined as more and more wrongdoing comes to light. Continue reading

Bitter Times Ahead

The equinox has passed, summer is well and truly ended in London and although we might enjoy some cool sunshine, the days are drawing in and we must prepare for winter. In London most are poorer than they have been for many years and most of the children will enjoy a less safe and less prosperous life than their parents lived. Continue reading

The Snows of Yesteryear

The British weather is like a bad lover. She seduces only to disappoint. Perhaps in London we have had our summer, even though the nights are still getting longer for a few more days. Perhaps it is age, which remembers better summers through the tinted eyes that are now weary and less reliable. We live within our time and recall times past imperfectly through the prism of optimism, which distorts by showing too much. And as the night draw in with depressing inexorable ruthlessness and as winter’s cold wraps itself into our very bones shall we ask

Mais où sont les neiges d’antan!