The month of March is symbolic of a new start, fresh beginning and hope for the spring and summer. The year starts here. But for the first time in my life I am facing the spring equinox with some trepidation. Normally I would be full of hope and excitement for the new year but this time round the mood is somewhat somber. There comes a time when one starts to rationalize the changing seasons as the stepping stones of ones own mortality; we start to regret the passing of time rather than enjoying embracing the excitement of the changing seasons.
The question's nagging away, how many more summers will I get? This fleeting morbidity will fade with the dry cleaning bill for my cricket whites, but its presence today is bleak reminder of a life well into the final half. The mood is somewhat dampened by pension statements that confirm the undeniable truth; to keep on living (spending) at the pace we have become accustomed, will mean that I am likely to yoked to the plough until the very end.