So it’s that time of year again, when I get out the old tartan blanket, settle myself on the sofa, and wait for spring. The spring bulbs are planted out (apart from the hyacinths which I just remembered I stashed in a cupboard, perhaps there’s still time for them). I’ve weeded the garden until it looks almost semi-respectable.
Although autumn is probably my favourite time of year, I do love the cosiness of winter too. When it can be had without an almost total deprivation of sunshine I really love it, but alas I am too far north for that. The large amount of time spent curled up inside seems almost designed for reading and writing. And I have been writing. Not NaNoWriMo! I don’t want to end the month dribbling into my manuscript, my brain liquefied by despair and coffee. But I have written some stuff, and logged some rejections, and that will have to do.
Tomorrow I’m going out to the theatre for the first time in a long time. Hurrah for new things! And for the long, long nights, full of dreams to fire my imagination. Except for the horrific ones. You know who you are.