Waiting for winter

Waiting for winter may actually be even more pleasurable than winter itself. The first hints arrive discreetly. You notice one day the air conditioner's stopped, and then the ceiling fan's turned down low. The morning air acquires a faint nip, and the bedsheet, till now a polite accessory, begins to justify its existence. It's time to air those sweaters wearing which will finally earn their keep.

By anticipating, one begins contemplating sweaters, quilts, afternoon sunshine, and not sweating. Tea becomes more desirable, fried snacks acquire legitimacy, and the idea of sitting outdoors ceases to resemble a punishment posting.

Blankets emerge from cupboards smelling faintly of mothballs and wisdom. Woollens are inspected, often with the discovery that their owners have expanded since last February. The prospect of sleeping under a heavy quilt becomes a private ambition, more compelling than professional advancement.


Best of all, winter's approach lends ordinary days a sense of impending reward. Each slightly cooler evening is treated as a diplomatic breakthrough. The season may eventually disappoint with spiking AQI levels. But anticipation, that most economical of pleasures, charges nothing and delivers.