Turning Seasons

My uncle, who is at the best of times proudly cantankerous, declared at Christmas: “I hate summer.  The light’s just bright and boring.  Give me winter light, far more interesting.”

Did I mention he’s cantankerous?  In my mind I heard courteous silence and from my mouth, obviously, came a rant.

“But uncle,” I exclaimed, bastion of restrained tact as I am, “That’s just nonsense.  Summer light changes as much as winter light does.  It can be a hot pink sunrise or a bright golden splat of light across the horizon.  It can be sky-blue brilliance that brightens to white, or it can be incredible shafts through a cloudy sky.  It can be muted on an overcast day, too dazzling to look at when the air is dry and hot.  It is cold by the sea, thin at the top of the mountain, it burns green through the leaves in the forest, it reflects pink off the sides of buildings in the afternoon, it smudges red as it sets through the city smog.  Don’t give me this nonsense about light – it just doesn’t hold!”

Or words to that effect.

And it occured to me… it’s been a while since we oozed over photos of London, hasn’t it?  Because honest, London has its pretty pretty moments….