It’s grim up north.

For me, this is the second worst time of year to live 53 degrees north of the equator. First prize goes to late October, when the sun first abandons us, taking with it large amounts of my energy, health and serotonin. I bravely march out in my wellies and woollies to fight the annual war on weather, all the while giving some serious thought to absconding into hibernation.

By the time we reach the so-called ‘bleak-midwinter’, I’ve had some time to acclimatise and things don’t seem so bad. December often brings a few crisp, clear days with bright sunshine, which is always welcome, despite being so low in the sky that it causes temporary blindness and makes driving an extreme sport. The explosion of happy songs, fairy lights and daytime drinking also does something to improve my nocturnal existence, if only for a few, festive weeks.

But by the time February arrives, the perpetual frosty nightmare does make me start to wonder if I’ve accidentally crossed the border into Narnia. It seems the trees and flowers will never be resurrected and that eventually, the evil, icy tyrant will also force me into suspended animation, frozen forever in some withered statue of surrender.

I am now so sick of sleeping fully clothed, cuddling a hot water bottle under three layers of insulation; only to get up in the dark, spend the precious few daylight hours cooped up inside, then spend the evening battling against my brain’s inclination towards yet more sleep. I’d like to look up at lunchtime and see something other than the moon, assuming even that’s visible behind the thick blanket of grey cloud. Then there are the persistent chapped lips, paralysed hands, numb feet, runny nose and pallid, flaky skin. Even in summer I border on albinism, so by the time I reach the last throes of winter, I’m a curious shade of purple and could probably embark on a career as an extra, specialising in playing corpses and the undead. It would save the make up department a fortune.

I know it’s almost spring and the end’s in sight, but it’s just not close enough, as the TV meteorologists continuously warn us in their forecasts of doom.

Next time, I’m definitely defecting. Hibernation may not be the answer, but perhaps I’ll shed my coat, follow the sun and migrate south for a while. Who says birds are stupid?

If you’d like to see more of my writing, visit http://www.shelleyirving.com, where I’ll be adding new short stories and articles soon. Find me on Facebook for updates http://www.facebook.com/?ref=logo#!/pages/Shelley-Irving/227455587342847