I’m not a Goth or anything. Far from it. I’m even quite getting into reggae, but that doesn’t mean I’m ever going to change my view that the months you need to wrap up for are the best.
My friends and family complain of our winters. “If it was extremely snowy or extremely crisp I wouldn’t mind,” they whinge, “but there are no extremes in any of our seasons.”
I regard them incredulously — we have the most extremely grey, dank, mucky winters in the world. Have some pride.
The midwinter greyness in London is OK, but my heart will forever belong to West Yorkshire’s early January bleakness. That same wintery gloom that hovered on the moors around Wuthering Heights and helped to drive Cathy nuts, the same chilly, lingering wetness that can turn Leeds United’s world-class Spanish and Italian opposition into leaden-footed amateurs. The kind of weather you don’t want to underestimate.
I show it the respect it deserves by stocking up on tea and HobNobs whenever I get the chance. It’s grim up North, but only when the sun’s out and you can actually see everything.
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When you’ve spent half your life referring only to Echo and The Bunnymen album covers for fashion pointers, it’s inevitable that you’ll have a preference for winter attire. I sweated a stone as a student trying to wear a long black duffle coat and scarf well into June. Maybe I am a bit Gothy.
I admit that I don’t like . . . The coming of spring
Folk get a little too giddy about the coming of spring. It’s either a bad version of summer, or winter with the lights on.
All that “coming of new life” dogma — the one time I ventured anywhere near a baby chicken, it did a poo in my hand, then died.
Besides, the real, secret, slightly grubby reason that people look forward to spring is that local shops start stocking Creme Eggs again. You can keep your fondant filling to yourself, Mr Rafiq, mine’s a packet of HobNobs.