Room with a view

Being, by nature, a glass half-full type of person, I was surprised by a conversation I had recently with Ottawacker Jr. We were talking about favourite seasons, and he informed me that his was "fall". (I normally beat him every time he slips in a Canadianism, but I let him off this time.) The reason, he told me, was because of the colours and Halloween and Christmas and his birthday and snow and and and on it went.

"What's your favourite season," he asked. I thought for a moment, but before I could answer, he answered for me. "I suppose," he said, "that's a trick question, isn't it. You hate all seasons, don't you?"

A little taken aback, I asked him what he meant.

"Well, you hate fall because it means winter is on the way. You hate the summer because it means fall is on the way. You hate spring because you are still angry about the winter. And winter, well. You know how you feel about winter."

He's seven years old and he's nailed me. 

I talked about this later to Mrs Ottawacker. She agreed with Ottawacker Jr completely. I was, she informed me, a miserable sod most of the time. But especially so in winter. And fall.