Conditioned by the school calendar, we tend to think of the
eighth month as the height of summer. And yet just look out of the window. It’s
AUTUMN.
We’re in that weird little intermezzo when a brief glance at
the populace reveals people clad in flip-flops and vests co-existing alongside
people in coats and scarves. When people are kidding themselves that it’s still
summer by reference to the date.
It’s rare that my blogs are inspired by other people, and
even rarer for me to give credit when they are – but this one came from my
wife, Elvira of Castille, who pointed out August’s treacherous qualities to me
last week.
Like Steven Gerrard/Frank Lampard/Wayne Rooney in an England
shirt, August lets you down every time. You know in your heart that it won’t
deliver on its promise, but you can’t help but hope it’ll be different this
time. Gradually, that hope turns into belief just in time to let you down painfully.
Also, it never snows at Christmas.
