Winter again.
Pictures of people skipping work to play in the snow front the newspapers, followed by pie-charts the next day of how much money the economy has lost due to the people skipping work to play in the snow. Early evenings and dark mornings. Chapped lips and icy boots. I won't lie, the magic of winter has certainly dimmed with the onerous task of the journey to and from work. But it hasn't gone completely. Delicate cobwebs still freeze and bare trees dazzle in fractal glory. The squeaking crunch of boots on snow. The silence. And the second lot of headlines always seem sulkier than the first.
A friend was once telling me about her trip to Australia. And she said something like: "They kept going on about how sunny it is. It's so boring. And it's too hot. I like winter. I like my scarves and sweaters." I've always liked that sentiment. I like my scarves and sweaters. I like it being cold, if only for the fact that it means I must try and get cosy. And one of those really satisfying feelings will always be entering a warm room from the cold, unwrapping layers, and feeling tingly as your nose and ears get flushed with warmth once again.
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