There is only one subject that is causing me great distress at the moment. Not Putin’s war against Ukraine, nor the catastrophic effects of KamiKwasi Kwarteng’s mini-budget, although both obviously trouble me. No. What’s upset my equilibrium, as it does every year, is the transition from wearing shorts and three-quarter length trousers to joggers and jeans. It’s something I put off as long as possible but today, finally, I have had to concede defeat.
It’s a pathetic ritual really and not something that comes with a big bang. It will start with the addition of ankle socks because my feet are beginning to get cold. Then, especially if I need some shopping, a warm top over my T shirt. Finally, as per today, 28th September 2022, I have felt the need to return to bag of ‘winter clothes’, which have remained in a big bag under the bed since April.
I don’t have Season Affective Disorder (SAD) and I have been able to embrace and even enjoy the changing of the seasons since I finished full time work over eight years ago. In fact, I used to be one of those grouchy types who complained that “we don’t have seasons these days” until I actually opened my eyes and looked at the reality. It doesn’t make up for the irritating necessity of having to wear Season Appropriate Clothes (SAC).
Today if you see me, I’ll be that doddery old geriatric, hobbling round Sainsbury’s in my Adidas trackies, quite frankly looking a bit of a twat. That’s very different from yesterday when I was out and about wearing shorts and looking a lot of a twat.
