See You Next Year, Old Friend.
I'm not sorry to bid a fond farewell to February...my least favourite month. Unlike Anna, my wife, I don't suffer from Seasonal affective disorder (SAD); she goes into decline in September and emerges from her torpor around May/June. If I say to her the days are getting shorter, a little muscle above her eye starts twitching. February, the month when: our honey solidifies in its jar and the olive oil turns grainy because the kitchen is so cold ('boo'); all my geraniums that I thought might last the winter don't ('boo'); the Six Nations Rugby is on the telly ('hurrah' from me, 'boo' from Anna). One thing I'll say in February's favour...it's short ('hurrah'). With the incessant rain our garden turns into a quagmire; it's like walking on a giant lasagne, slipping and sliding about. Outside our front door it resembles the Somme and when hanging out the washing one is prone to trench foot. As well as the interminable rain t...