Around the world the changing of the seasons is distinguished in many different ways. And so too here in Britain; but no sudden onset of monsoon rains; dulcet, velvety snowfall; full moons or gophers checking their silhouettes for us. No, here the seasons cannot be distinguished by something so simple as meteorology, we're far too subtle for that (plus we have no weather to speak of - although that has never stopped the English from doing exactly that; incessantly). Instead one has to look at something far more reliable than the British weather: the British traffic. Anxious mothers in their unsuitably large Chelsea tractors, carrying their precious progeny, now vie with work commuters for the limited road space and ensure that nobody gets anywhere on time.
Whilst writing this post I've also realised that a year has gone full circle since I returned. A lot, and yet also very little, has happened since then. As always time is adept at playing tricks with your mind: looking forward a year seems endlessly long, and yet in hindsight is as fleeting and ephemeral as the life of a mayfly.
