I hate this time of year. From the start of last month to the end of this, I hate it. The days are wet, or at best damp, and are either cold or suddenly rather warm, cooking you in your rainwear. And, worst of all, the days are grey. So terribly, terribly grey. The clouds, the buildings, the trees, the cars, the people. The buses, being red, albeit a dirty red, try to do their bit. But inside, the condensation on the windows sweats away, grey and wet, obscuring the view of the greyness and wetness you will soon be stepping back into.
It’s like we are living our lives in a black and white film, but it’s worse than that, because in black and white films there are blacks and whites as well as greys. For us, in these miserable months, it’s just greys. Even if it snows, the snow only stays white for about 15 minutes before it starts fading to grey.
The odd splash of colour you occasionally see in the murk barely helps, its starkness accentuating the monochrome all around, deepening the gloom. I find the sight of something vividly red particularly unhelpful, almost morbid, summoning the quiet horror of the small figure in the bright red coat in that disquieting film Don’t Look Now.
As I write, the sun has popped out. But I’m not fooled. It’s toying with me. Begone! I know you will vanish again shortly for days and weeks on end, so just get on with it. Bring back the greys – we know there’s more of them to come. It doesn’t even help that the days are getting longer. What’s the point? It just creates more time for greyness. The nights I don’t mind actually. Blackness isn’t great, but it has one thing going for it – it’s better than greyness. Black beats grey. Everything beats grey.
I have just been for a blood test. At least my blood wasn’t grey. The phlebotomist told me to cheer up, that at least every day brings us closer to spring. So she says. I’ll believe it when I see it.
