Looking at the detailed weather forecast this morning, I saw that deep blue air mass hovering to the north of us, and listened as we were told that it is sinking south, that by the end of the week winter proper will have arrived. Every season is special and I cannot imagine living somewhere without them, even though my wife has dreams of constant summer. Still, I do feel the cold more these days...

But it is impossible to imagine English Literature without its seasons. How crucial these are for settings and themes and characters; how could we have the pathetic fallacy without spring at Talbot hays in Hardy's 'Tess'. for example?

The mystery of how these posts are read continues. The last but one, 'Spectacles', has reached 37 views, the highest ever, but the subsequent one, 'Spectacles 2' has only ever been read once, by me! What is the explanation? Someone must know.

Jenna has arrived - a new rescue dog. She has immediately caused a restructuring of the reading and writing day. I'm sure that her many neuroses can be sorted out over the next few years! A more immediate problem is where to put my feet, as she has decided to sleep in the desk-well whenever I am writing. The trials of life...