It was warm today-- cloth jacket warm, though the morning was still winter overcoat weather. Opened a window for the first time this year because bedroom was stuffy. (Will have to close it again- low of 5C is not open window weather; may indeed still be furnace weather.) For a month or more it's been the late winter world: bright hard-edged pure blue clarity: cloudy days have been pewter-silver and the world has seemed a welcoming place. But now for a few days it's spring: the grey louring overcast April-Easter kind of spring; and my SAD is biting suddenly and viciously, the more so for the delay in its arrival. I am, in a word, sad, with the melancholy of things as they are and the inexorable passage of time and the tattiness that April always brings with it. So I think I'll have a hot bath and go to bed early.
I had a bicycle called 'Splendid', A cricket-bat called 'The Rajah', Eight box-kites and Scotch soldiers With kilts and red guns. I had an album of postmarks, A Longfellow with pictures, Corduroy trousers that creaked, A pencil with three colours.
Where do old things go to? Could a cricket-bat be thrown away? Where do the years go to? -Arthur Waley