I do it every year.
The jasmine and honeysuckle bloom, cherry blossoms petals are blowing off the trees like confetti and the air has that kind of tenderness that promises sunshine and warmth.
And so it begins.
The moment I get a whiff of spring, I’m packing away the jumpers and sprinting out to the vege patch to put in some seedlings.
Then, for good measure, I switch over to the summer doona and stick the slow cooker up the back of the kitchen cupboard.
You don’t need me to tell you how this all ends, do you?
I find myself – clad only in a sundress – facing a sudden icy westerley, and my heart plummets as fast as the mercury.
Late frosts smash the seedlings, and before you know it we are enduring a cold snap in our jumpers, under the winter doona, eating casseroles.
I don’t generally consider myself an optimist, but when it comes to the weather, I’m not really a pack-an-umbrella kind of girl.
I’ve pretty much done this wherever I’ve lived, but I happen to presently reside in a particularly chilly part of Australia, where spring comes late (and gloriously, mind you) and meteorological setbacks are common.
And still I never learn.
I’ve always loved spring the best, but not necessarily for its own qualities (delightful though they may be).
It’s not that I don’t appreciate pleasant temperatures and budding flowers, but they’re more like an entree than the main course, in my view.
The truth is, I’m a fan of hot weather, the more humid the better, but I prefer spring over summer because I enjoy looking forward to the heat.
That, for me, has a tiny edge over experiencing the joy of the heat itself but tinged with the sad knowledge that it’s all going to end soon.
It’s all about the anticipation.
You can luxuriate in the knowledge that it’s all up from here.
Except when it isn’t. Damn you, cold snaps.