Well-seasoned

I have a friend who likes all the seasons. "What's your favourite season?" I will ask her.

"Hmm," she will say thoughtfully. "Hmm." Then she will answer, "I love spring when it's just getting warm and all the blossom comes out."

"Me too," I would say. "Spring is my second favourite season."

"But I like summer too, when it's really, really hot and you go rampaging for ice-cream."

"I love summer," I would say. "Summer is quite literally my absolute favourite season."

"But I love it when it's cold," she continues. "Ooh, I love being all warm inside with a cup of hot chocolate when it's freezing outside."

"There I would disagree with you, my friend," I would say. "Winter is in my bottom two seasons."

"And of course I love autumn too," she will say. "When the leaves go brown and there are bonfires and toffee apples."

I hate autumn. I absolutely loathe it. I probably ought to like it more because I have an autumn birthday, but every year around the start of September you can smell how the air has changed and although it might be August-hot, the gravel seems crunchier and you know the first frost is on its way.

And that is why my friend is wrong, and summer is the best. Unfortunately we seem to have skipped my favourite season this year and gone straight to my least favourite. Letters of complaint have been lodged with the relevant people.