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I hate cold weather. It’s a bold statement, but it’s true. It’s June now, and summer is just a vague memory. Wandering down North Terrace the other day, I noticed the leaves on the trees were brown and wilting, crunching underfoot. As ridiculous as it might sound, it made me genuinely sad. 

For me (and many others), summer conjures memories of my most joyful times and carries a sort of sensory nostalgia: the smell of the ocean from the top of my street, the golden morning light and pink evening skies, weekends at our summer house in Aldinga, the long days and short nights, the light clothing, the laughter, the greenery, and the blue skies. I think I romanticise summer, try to turn it into the type of paradise you might find in Call Me By Your Name, as I dream of apricots in the orchard, a glistening lake, an old Italian villa, and expanses of well-worn countryside. The imagery that belongs to summer holds a special place in my heart.

Winter, on the other hand, offers no such joy. Waking up to a dark, cold morning, having to wear heavy layers just to stay warm, hiding your face from the cold wind and rain. All of these things are tedious and joyless. I’m usually alone in my hatred of winter. It’s many people’s favourite season (particularly in South Australia, where I’ll admit it doesn’t get that cold). I have to remind myself of the good parts about winter: wood-fires, hearty meals, rugging up on the sofa and watching Harry Potter, buying turtleneck jumpers, listening to the rain, and reading my favourite winter novels (Little Women or an Agatha Christie are high on the list). I suppose these things aren’t terrible. They’re quite nice, actually.