A Half Baked Wintery Rant

There. Said it. I loath the cold, the wet, the deadness of winter. I cannot abide the dark mornings, the grim evenings, and the having to wear additional layers in an effort to keep the elements at bay. I dislike the cold bathroom, the continual damp ground when one ventures out. Slush sucks, snow causes havoc, and teenage idiots use it as an excuse to hassle those around them. 
I am not, repeat not designed for a cold climate. It's a bit like putting a penguin in a sauna; I just don't belong there. I suppose I should be grateful that I wasn't born in Siberia, or that I'm not a seal, but that doesn't mean I can't grumble at those months in every year when I yearn for those better days when the sun rises at four and deserts us at ten. When the blossom comes and the lambs are born, when the trees grow verdant and the skies give warmth. Don't misunderstand me, I'm good at taking pleasure in whatever life has to offer, and I'm rarely lacking ideas as to how to entertain myself or others. It's just that the spring and the summer provide so many additional options, which is why I'm ranting, why I'm throwing my toys out of the pram. Overnight we've had a few centimetres of snow, not enough to get the sledge out, but more than enough to soak everything and turn the ground underfoot to mush. This combined with the cold; that biting incessant numbing cold. I have no idea why Dickens loved his winter landscapes so much. Oh Ok, I suppose I can grudgingly admit that it is beautiful, in a barren and bleak kind of way. Out in the countryside things seems so silent and still, perhaps the occasional glimpse of a hare exploding across a field, or a cluster or bored cows stood idly at the edge of a field. Everything is so frigid and quiet, the sound travelling for miles, black crows circling around distant structures or perched watchfully upon power cables.
Bugger. Now that I describe it I'm forced to admit that it does have an appeal of sorts. It's a time of quiet regeneration, of stasis, the calm before life explodes once more in full raiment. If I frame it like that I can grudgingly admit to a certain appreciation, but don't think for a second that I'd trade those balmy summer days for the slow endless toil of January and February. That would be a bridge too far.