I am winter person. I think the main reason is because I prefer darker colours to lighter ones. I also have a fondness for leather jackets that borders on the obsessive, so the colder weather favours my wardrobe. I told you I was shallow.
Perhaps I should mention that I don’t necessarily like winter, because there are definitely some severe drawbacks to the season. Illness is one of them. The sprog’s creche-mates have been busily circulating the latest exciting infection, so snotty noses and unwitting Darth Vader impressions have been the order of the day. Still, at least the condition is treatable and relatively short-term in nature.
As far as I am concerned, the major drawback to winter is when my wife’s annual soup-madness rears it’s ugly head (and sadly, it has). This bizarre form of temporary insanity has no known cure and lasts for months on end. This means that for the foreseeable future I can look forward to returning home to the delightful aroma of boiling cabbage, broccoli and cauliflower. The fridge will fill up with innumerable identical plastic containers of grey, chunky, foul-smelling liquid and the very mention of soup will make me twitch. You see, the primary symptom of the soup-madness is that my wife doesn’t actually eat the soup she makes – she just enjoys making it (and fumigating the flat in the process). After she’s done boiling the crap out of the unsuspecting ingredients, the soup gets banished to the fridge to rot while she sets about preparing the next pot. I usually make a brave effort to keep the soup levels down, but after a couple of days I start to lose track of which batch is fresh and which is not. At this point, the game of botulism roulette really begins in earnest.
It wouldn’t be so bad if I could donate the stuff to a soup kitchen, but I’ve already had a strongly-worded warning from Human Rights Commission about that.