To everything there is a season, says the Bible. And, as I have been discovering, to every season there are certain things. To autumn belongs the wet shiny streets, the brollies and the macs, the brightly coloured soups, the quiet squares where both trees and grass are emblazoned with gold leaves. Then, as autumn moves to winter, there are the fleecy collars and fluffy hats, the steamy breaths, the ferrous skies. Perhaps before the season is over, I’ll get to see windowpanes with actual snow on them, instead of cotton wool.
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I have spent all my life, until now, in the tropics, where there are no seasons. Singapore is just one degree north of the equator, and you’re reminded of the fact all the time as the sun bears down and the thunderstorms whip (both usually within the space of 24 hours). Dawn and dusk arrive at the same time every day. Humidity wraps the earth like a wet towel. Vegetation is lush throughout the year; orchids flourish with no need of hothouses. When walking outdoors, you hop from shade to shade, avoiding the sun. The only people who don suits are western businessmen.
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I have, of course, experienced the colder seasons before — by visiting Sydney or Shanghai. But I’ve never actually stayed put in one place as the seasons lapse one into the other. I find it beautiful and somewhat unsettling: the other day I saw a London cab turn the corner at Russell Square and I stopped in my tracks, startled by the spiralling of amber leaves in its wake.
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I am stirred by superficial things. It seems to me that everyone looks better in the cold. Long coats, gloves, knee boots — these have evolved far less quickly and faddishly than T-shirts, miniskirts and sandals.
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