Autumn not so predictable now

Hello Christchurch and welcome to autumn. The dew lies softly on the grass as the sun rises with diminishing intensity. I – archetypal kiwi bloke that I am – have been trying to paint my house in the closing weeks of summer.

Why pay a tradesman to do a proper job when you can do a sub-standard job yourself?

There’s nothing like painting against a deadline to realise that the days are growing shorter with each rotation of the earth.

I can confirm that, like the final episodes of Game of Thrones, winter is coming.

It’s been such a great second half of summer that it’s easy to forget how awful the weather was in the lead-up to Christmas.

Anyone remember that?

Something about a movement of air coming up from Antarctica that hadn’t been factored into weather predictions.

Here I was, walking around like an ill-informed schmuck, claiming Christchurch was going to benefit from climate change with summers so hot we would be joyously bathing in our rivers of faeces and algal blooms, when in reality ‘‘climate change’’ means weather that’ll be less predictable than a methhead driving a golf cart.

The tail-end of summer does feel like it might be long, like we might yet have a few more weeks to go out and enjoy Christchurch in the sunshine.

I was suddenly worried that ‘‘Indian summer’’ might have some horrific colonial undertone that meant we didn’t use the expression anymore.

But after three minutes of research I’m pleased to announce the phrase has yet to be struck off the register.

The way the seasons change has to be one of the best bits of this dirty old town.

It’s hot in summer. It’s cold in winter. In spring the blossoms remind us of new life and in autumn we remember that entropy is a sad necessity of time.

We’re now ankle deep in autumn and I recommend a visit to Hagley Park if you want the full experience.

Take some kid along; play in the leaves; remind yourself to remember a life lived to its best must include a quota of joy.

I run an al fresco business.

I try to make hay while the sun shines over summer so that I can hunker down and continue to pay the bills over winter.

I think being as aware as I am of the weather patterns makes me more like a farmer than my fellow city folk.

In some ways it’s a precarious existence, in other ways it seems more attuned to the natural world.

As I mentioned previously, I’m a world champion sleeper and I’ve always liked the idea of sleeping much more over winter. In an ideal world I’d like to sleep for the whole of July, which would mean I could stay up late and drink beer all through the Christmas season without consequence.

Sadly, I’m not a bear.

But speaking of beer, I am Irish and I do celebrate St Patrick’s Day, which always comes as the full stop at the conclusion of the summer sentence.

It’s on this Sunday and the Irish would love to invite you to celebrate with them.

My first inclination is to lobby for those of Irish descent to be able to take the day off work as a ‘‘cultural holiday’’.

But upon musing on the situation I wonder if March 18 – a date I’ve dubbed St Bastard’s Day – should be a day of mourning for all those of Irish extraction.

We could all sleep the day away and start the winter sleep cycle with intent.

I’ll see you all for pint on Sunday.