I love the bird song. I love the tiny purple crocuses dotting our lawn. I love going for an early walk on the Downs, frost underfoot, and being able to peel off my jersey and see for miles. On a deeper level, it's obviously a terrifying signal of irreversible change, but in the moment, it's just peachy.
Except for the wardrobe. I've been feeling exceedingly smug about Not Shopping recently. Anyone who asks, or dares show me their new purchases, gets treated to a libretto on the joys of under-consumption. I wax on about how we have and expect too much, and how all we need do is pause for a moment, examine what we're doing, and we can cut our shopping by half. Or even totally (bar food), as I've been doing.
But that was before the weather changed. It's as though the early spring sun brought with it my fashion imp, who is currently raging inside my head about her Needs. She needs a new skirt (or two), several long-sleeved T-shirts, and a trench coat (obviously). The big jerseys that have been slopping over my wide-legged trousers so effectively are plainly ridiculous when the sky's as blue as a tit's head and daisies and daffodils are a' springin' all over the shop. Even without magazines - and hundreds of miles away from Fashion Central - I've managed somehow to assimilate that I need a fuchsia dress. The thought's ridiculous, obviously, but I want, want, want one!
I've realised now that the only reason I've managed to shimmy so easily through January is because I bought so bloody much in November and December. Trouble is, it's beginning to lose its lustre - or, at least, its weather-appropriateness. Why is it that I can normally end a season happy with my wardrobe, while by the next year, it seems like I've got nothing to wear?
What is it about new clothes that makes me feel younger, thinner and wittier? Am I going to make it through the year without giving in to the blandishing imp?
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