There are certain things I do about this time of year, every year.
And even though some of them are patently absurd, I can’t stop myself doing them. It’s some kind of seasonal madness over which I have no control.
The first is this: when the weather report suggests the day will be warmer than usual – not summery, mind you; just not as freezing as it has been – I prance out the door jacket-less, in sandals, full of delight in the coming of spring.
Why doesn’t anybody stop me? (Okay, people do try to stop me, but I know better.)
It’s always too soon, and I always pay the price: shivering through a day that, sadly, doesn’t live up to expectations and wondering why no one else got caught out.
But my optimism knows no bounds. Because very shortly afterwards I’ll make the possibly premature decision that our bedding is too heavy for the inevitably warmer weather, and strip off the blankets. My husband will get into a bed made with sheets and not much else, and grumble resignedly as he pulls bedding back out of the cupboard.
The third mistake I make, as regular as clockwork, is to rush out to the vegetable garden with a pile of seedlings, just busting to get started on lovely new crops.
The suns shines, the blossoms bloom, the birds sing; it’s like a Disney movie come to life. I am almost making myself sick with the sheer twee delightfulness of it all.
Then comes comes the cold snap. My tender green seedlings might survive one little frost, but then comes another. And another.
And the poor seedlings turn black and die. And I have to wait a while, then plant another round of seedlings, this time more cautiously.
So here we are again in the first weeks of spring. I’ve already committed crime number one. I’m trying to control myself near the doona and the vege patch.
I know lovers of the cold who do the opposite, lighting a fire in April just for the atmosphere, then having to open the windows to let the heat out. Now that’s really crazy, in my level-headed opinion.
