Novel way to survive SAD times
JSO IT’S going to be a winter of discontent, with energy prices through the roof and the haulage driver shortage cancelling Christmas. Again.
Actually I don’t believe it will be nearly as bad as everyone’s predicting. I just think commentators have got so used to Covid scares and lockdowns they can’t envisage a life without drama. My guess is that, on the whole, winter will be costly and a bit unpleasant, but nothing like as horrible as last year.
But for some of us winter’s always bleak.Those with
SAD, or Seasonal Affective Disorder, find the annual descent into bitter cold and darkness particularly traumatic.
For me it starts in November, because that’s the month my dad died in 1984; he had cancer and spent his final weeks in bed at my parents’ house in Manchester, gradually fading away.
I lived just around the corner, and my abiding memory of that horrible month is sitting in a chair by the window in dad’s bedroom watching the light drain from the day, murky afternoon deepening into early black winter night while dad lay dying.
Every November I re-enter a sort of psychological twilight zone, dreading the rapidly darkening days.
Some swear by light box therapy, but that doesn’t work for me. What does get me through to the bright shine of Christmas is that Danish hygge thing, the concept of cosy comfort, soft lamplight in warm rooms, crackling fires, candles, furry blankets and snug throws.
The other weapon in my seasonal anti-depression kit is reading and I’ve found the perfect antidote to winter blues in the remarkable leap, from quizmaster extraordinaire to bestselling author, by Richard Osman (left).
Not that his two crime novels, The Thursday Murder Club (excellent) and The Man Who Died Twice (even better), need any endorsement from me – between them they’ve topped the book charts now for a year, with phenomenal sales.
Clever, warm, and very funny, both are set in an upmarket retirement village where a quartet of residents, all around 80, solve fiendishly complicated murders. I guarantee they’ll charm the bed-socks off you.
Simple pleasures, but they’ll cradle you through any winter of discontent.