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Seasons is as seasons does as I'm sure one of Moos' Northern forebears would have remarked.

I like 'em all, prefer the cold to the rain though. I just like them to be proper, hot summer, cold snowy winter etc.

Not like some of these pissarse can't make their ruddy minds up seasons we sometimes get lumbered with.

Still I try to look on the bright side and generally take a 'many a mickle makes a muckle' attitude to the whole thing.

You can usually tell when the end of summer is near, because thattwatNigel from accounts chooses the first cooler day to tell everyone that the nights are drawing in. When this elicits no response, he details how many shopping days are left till Christmas. Finally, as his trump card, he tells everyone that he knows summer must be over because it took him 13 minutes longer than usual to drive to work this morning. Because the schools are back, you see.


Nigel loves this time of year. Last year he kept up a running commentary on the state of Tracy's peeling, then fading, tan, until the office manager had to take him aside and say that although everyone enjoys a bit of banter, he was beginning to freak Tracy out a bit. Since then, Nigel has always made sure that whenever Tracy asks him for updated costings, he delays opening her email for a couple of days. Let the snooty bitch wait for her figures.

I find that the most accurate way of assessing the seasons transit is to observe the habits of OAP's. When they dress down it's summer and when the scarf and mitts come out it's winter.


They buy Bovril all year round so that can throw you off track now and again.

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