|Deer in Richmond Park, taken by Alex Saberi|
Logically, there is absolutely no reason that I should be innately governed by the school year. I’ve not been at school for some *mumble* years, and as I’m not planning on sprogging any time in the near future, it’s desperately unlikely that I’ll be living in close proximity to anyone else who’ll be attending any time soon. And yet, for as long as I can remember, my internal clock has been dictacted to by the school calendar.
The rest of the adult world, understandably, seems to run from January to December. Each January is a virtuous new beginning, whilst December and its parties and gluts of food and family and overindulgence wrap up the year.
But for me, September feels like the beginning. I’ve nearly managed to shake off the intrinsic need I used to feel to buy new stationery and cover all my books in clear plastic, but still the turn of the season feels far more potent in its ability to deliver new and brilliant things than January ever does. And on top of a holiday in the summer, I take my time off work at Easter and Christmas, leaving my year cut into three terms (I’ve mourned the loss of half-terms and reading weeks since I graduated), hammering home the interminable school-time feeling.
I don’t know whether it’s the occasional chill in the air that I adore, and far prefer to the enveloping sticky warmth of a summer morning when I walk out of the front door of the flat to go to work. Maybe it’s the change in the landscape, making everything look more alive: instead of dry sunburnt scrub, London’s parks start to go green, and the leaves on the trees are a cacophony of brilliant colour. Maybe it’s simply that I was so conditioned in my formative years that there’s no way now I’ll be able to shake this feeling, and for me, September will always be the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness - and a brand new shiny pen or two.