Should you be feeling inclined to seasonal gloom, you might be interested to know that as far back as 1420 the poet Thomas Hoccleve was suffering from SAD.

Aftir that harvest inned had hise sheves,

 And that the broun sesoun of mihelmesse

  Was come, and began the trees robbe of hir leves ...

And hem into colour of yellownesse

Had died and doun throwen undir foote

That chaunge sank into myn herte roote.

I'm finding myself fascinated by Alexandra Harris's exploration of English weather. And amazed by her scholarly versatility. (Her previous books Romantic Moderns and a delightfully short biography of Virginia Woolf are also excellent.)

Yesterday I bought a little bunch of daffodils which looks hopeful, if slightly odd against the holly. (I know, far too soon for holly but you've got to be quick around here before it all disappears from the lanes.)