The First Day of Spring

It’s the first of September; the first day of spring. Back in England I’d have been waiting another three weeks, such is their obsession with the equinox.

Of course, even by 20 March I’d have been lucky to be sitting outside my South London house with a glass of Rose, which is precisely what I’m doing now.

It’s a belter of day, the floors are clean, the washing is out and the boy’s fed and asleep. I think this is what the professionals call ‘me time’.

Whatever, so long as mine is served well chilled.

And well justified. There’s a real sense of freshness to this particular seasonal shift. August closed with the end of the football season, so there goes the thrill of the match day and my Wednesday night training session with the lads.

August was also a month of family visits. Though delightful and full of moments to cherish, these were also bookended by days of frantic cleaning, baking and shopping.

Weekdays, needless to say.

And, as if a glutton for punishment, yesterday I added to this list with a coffee-fuelled decision to spruce up our garden before spring arrived.

Heck, I wouldn’t be trumpeting my role as a stay-at-home dad if the inside of the house wasn’t kept spick and span. That being the case it was always going to take some lateral thinking for me to get any sort of kick out of the spring cleaning tradition.

Well, that and doing it in winter – a season that warrants, if not making absolutely necessary, the use of one’s brazier to fire up all those leaves and fallen branches.

If only I’d kept watch over my fire in the company of a mulled wine.