This is a ‘flat’ time of year. The build-up to Christmas is beginning, with the rows and arguments yet to start, but bubbling under, lurking in the wings waiting for their cue. The cold and rain has been replaced (at least today) by milder weather, and low, penetrating sun. This is not the sun of blue skies, fluffy clouds, and a feel-good mood. This is the kind of sun that necessitates wearing sunglasses in winter, and having to slip a piece of curtain across a window, or shield your eyes with a hand. It also fades quickly, unlike summer sun. This low winter sun flares like a torch in your face for a few short hours, then falls from the sky around 3pm, as if it has slipped off a ledge.

Everything seems damp and rotting. Grass has turned to mud, leaves congeal into mushy piles. Long evenings drag into longer nights, sapping enthusiasm and ideas. This is a season of reflection and contemplation, not of planning and anticipation. Things stop working, (see previous posts) and need servicing and repair. At the time you need it most, the Central Heating plays up, and if you dare look forward to a night in, watching a good film, the TV breaks down. Things seem to take longer to do, as if your energy has gone with the light and warmth. Clearing away the garden furniture, covering the table, all things that hammer home the realisation that sitting outside has gone for now, and you are never sure when that freedom will return. When I had no outside to sit in, and home was a small London flat, on the third floor, these things were of no consequence. It is only once you have them to enjoy, that you can bemoan their loss.

The feeling of edginess will not go. Something is niggling away at me, a tangible tingling inside. I try not to think about it, hoping it will just not be there tomorrow; treating moods and feelings like toothache, though I am not sure that it will work of course. This blog helps. In the same way that some draw comfort from counsellors, or therapists,  I type these thoughts, and feel somewhat unburdened, yet knowing, as those others must, it is only a short-term solution to problems that must be dealt with later. Too much time on my hands, I hear wise heads saying. Too much time to think, too much thought, not enough action. Too much of everything perhaps, who really knows?

Some things are certain. Thoughts and feelings that once seemed important and vital, now appear to be of little consequence. Silence is very loud, when it is always present. Age and experience changes perspectives, as weather and season can alter mood. I can’t shake it off, and feel the need to resort to listing positives in my head, never a good sign.

Low winter sun has a lot to answer for.