I am better in the winter, when it all goes moss and bone, when the fiddling drizzle comes and nobody tries to make me play with balls. I am better jumpered. The summer makes me feel hungover, lightly greased with shame. I am not a one for T-shirts and team sports, but nor am I strong enough to resist the nagging notion that I am wasting a lovely day, cooped up indoors like that. When my breath is visible I can breathe again, get fat and grow my winter coat.
Now it is September, though, the smell of stationery on the air. In September I am compelled to corral my papers, pick the knickers off the piano and pull my socks up good and high. In September, I resolve. And then when the first snow comes, I fill my belly full of pine needles and go to sleep behind the stove.
This winter I resolve to think more about horses. I don't think I can do anything more than that.