Every year, at around this time, I have the same argument with a friend: he claims that spring is the greatest season, while I morosely plump for autumn. With autumn, I argue, you know where you are: the evenings are drawing in and the russet-toned leaves connote one thing: the plunging into the long, dark night of the year’s soul. It’s gloriously brooding and it never disappoints. “Oh, but spring is joyous, beautiful, etc, etc.” No, spring hugs you and then slaps you. Just when it’s promised you sun-dappled treasures it snatches them away and splashes you cold in the face. April is not only the cruellest month, it’s deceitful, it’s unfriendly and it’s downright abusive. Bah-springbug.