For some reason, I hate November. The alarm rings, D springs out of bed and I don't. Can I just have 10 more minutes?Immediately turning on the bright lights and jolly radio doesn't change my mood. The kettle goes on automatically, for yet more tea, which I don't tend to need in the summer. I take up to two hours to coax my self out of the door.
Driving the twisty lanes, after the rush, musing and moping, I arrive at the village square, with its simple cross. Poppy wreaths lie there from the Sunday service. Fog hangs on the trees. Here I am again. Sigh.
Or, if it's a London day, I briefly escape on the bike, then sit on the train after the one I should have got. Musing and moping makes me forget things, like phones and keys, so I'm invariably late. Staring at the little houses as they go by, I arrive at the big station, again. Sigh. Another brief escape riding, then the office. Piles of paper.
It's not the season itself, which is delightful. Mists playing in the folds of the land, artfully shaping the landscape. Berries glowing in the thinning hedges. Bouncy little animals going about their little Autumnal businesses.
I don't even mind the cold and damp. I have socks and other stuff, so I can cope with all that. Even if it gets bitter I can usually free up a bit of Chi for the fingertips. So let's have a bit of left-brain attack on the problem shall we?
Theory A: It's Natural. A bit of SAD-syndrome probably, left over from the Neolithic. Go to the back of the cave, chew on some reindeer fat and wait it out. Work on the wittling and the verses. Don't drink too much.
Theory B: You've got far too much on. Term 1 is generally a bastard, and you've got it about three ways, plus all the admin crap. Sort it out, or jack it in for fecks sake. Take some leave, at least. You're owed about a year.
Theory C: You're actually depressed. See A or B, possibly, or something else. Whatever X is, you shouldn't be dragging it around on top of everything else. Maybe you are still upset about the deaths, or Some Shit You Were Meant to Do But Didn't, or The Future and Stuff. Anyway, either (pace A) forget about it – it's just misdirected Desire. Or (B), sort it out: see a nice person with a couch. Who might well tell you to forget about it, or jack it in and do something you actually like, or permutations thereof.