Is it Cold, or is it Me?

I wore a jacket today to work for the first time this year, my black wool and cashmere. It was thrust back into the world after its summers sojourn in the back of my wardrobe.

I put the central heating on for the first time last night and this morning. Oh, those bare legs in the mornings in what turns into a tiled cell in the cold.

We put our winter doona on the bed last night for the first time in 2015.

It is early this year, the cool, I reckon about a month early, more than a month. I don't think it is until late May that it usually starts to get cold.

Summer switched off, a week a go. Click, just like that. Over. Done. Gone. I know I prefer the cool weather over the very hot, I'd prefer the chill to the sweat, but isn't there something in between? Some honey warm days in the mid 20s eventually melting into winter.

When I go for my hours walk after work the streets even seem less busy, like everyone has gone home an hour earlier with the cold and the dark and the end day light savings, like I am the only one who hasn't reset the hour.

Click, click sound the heals of my shoes on the footpath as I walk to work. The chill of winter gets behind me and pushes me along, as I seek out the morning sun, which is so opposite to the summer days where I constantly find the shade in which to walk, in which to slowly wander along. There is no click click of my heals in the summer months.

Everything changes as the months change.

I saw my neighbour, Jackson Wag, as I headed up our street. He was coming back from getting his morning paper. He told me that I looked smooth.