A_HBT0558561516.JPG Just 30-days to go until winter lands. And four months before Roger Moroney's shorts resurface.
One to go.
One month … 30-odd days … and a winter will be upon us again.
But I'm not too concerned because I've seen a few now, and kind of know what to expect.
It's always heartening to ponder, whilst tucking the shorts away in mothballs for their annual hibernation, that in four short months time I'll be taking them out again, and once more causing children to chortle.
Yep, tuck this last month of autumn out of the way and dissolve the three months of winter, and it'll be springtime again.
Crikey, my reader will declare (I always go for the singular to be on the safe side), he's spot on.
Oh yes, I can read a calendar like a parking ticket … or a speeding ticket.
Although I haven't had one of those for about 10 years, and it was a minor one at that.
But I have heard about people who generally notch up four or five speeding infringement notices a year.
So reading earlier this week about the scale of speeding tickets which are churned out across the region I wasn't surprised.
I've seen plenty of speedsters.
We all have, and the latest stats pretty much sum up why crash stats and injury stats also run at a high pace.
What's the hurry?
What's the point in dashing away from the lights to get the dibs on the two-into-one lane merger ahead?
I'm happy to take second place as I know that up ahead there's another set of lights and yep, I grin as I catch up with the rocket man.
On a trip, so what if you save three or four minutes.
Mind you, it takes three or four minutes a fortnight later to organise paying the speed infringement notice.
Run at the legal limits, no more and no less, and all will be well.
On that note, I daresay some speed notices emerge in the wake of mounting frustration on the open road when the vehicle in front is effectively dawdling at 78km/h.
They should get a ticket as well.
But I'll put the keys away for now and pick up the rake instead and embrace that fine old autumn tradition of "clearing up these bloody leaves".
Although I have to say, that I now kind of enjoy it.
I am reminded of that curious story of how, due to his ailing mind, the late ex-US pres Ronald Reagan was said to amble off down to the pool with a scooping net in hand, to remove the leaves floating upon it.
According to the story, his security staff would, at night, sprinkle the leaves back out there again, as there were none falling at that time and Ronald clearly enjoyed the daily duty.
I can tolerate scraping up leaves for about two months, which is the autumn falling time for them.
Is that why some people call this season "fall?"
With the trees and vine things we have, I can scratch up a couple of bucketfuls a day, and at the end of it all easily fill an old empty wool fadge.
Then the journey to the green waste place, where fadges stuffed with leaves are unloaded from trailers, decks and fold-down hatchback boots.
It is a horizon of leaves.
As are so many suburban streets where they drift and pile and blow across driveways and lawns at their messy leisure.
This is the time of the year when I get all Simon and Garfunkelish for one of my favourite tunes warbled by Pauly boy and Arty is all to do with "when the leaves that are green turn to brown".
"And they wither with the wind and crumble in your hand."
This duo down under is with you boys … me and the rake.
I've just noticed there's quite a strong wind rushing through.
I call that nature's rake.
She effortlessly takes them away to a new home, or two, or three, down the road.