‘In briefe, I thus conclude of it, I hold it the Winters forewarning, and the summers farewell’
On September, from ‘Fantastickes’, Nicholas Breton, 1626
SEASONAL Affective Disorder. SAD. Usually applied to depression caused by the dark of winter, but for me the crunch time is the end of summer, when the tart, over-ripe smells of autumn fruit come sniffing in, the day shortens and the night-time cold is a different sort of cold, a thinner, keener, bone-touching cold. Yesterday, in the faded lemony sunlight of the afternoon, a wasp stung itself to death on the sitting-room windowsill, its body spinning in crazed circles, as, outside in the garden, a robin sang its wistful September song. In the morning, a chiffchaff had sung briefly, half heartedly, from the lime trees, themselves…
