August in London is like Sunday used to be - big, empty, dull, lacking in vitality - and everyone is away. What can we do but lie around and read Smoke, listen to Radio Four about jelly, apple orchards and the IRA, and drink the last of the summer rose. Am I the only one to feel melancholy in summer?
I am longing for the leaves to turn and fall, the nights to darken and the days to shorten. My great great uncle Sir Robert Pearce chaired the Commons committee that got the Daylight Saving Act through parliament and I hope that it is not going to be repealed. The committee consulted diverse persons such as the head of Bryant & May, makers of matches, who was all in favour of lighter nights as he said that the working man would be out longer smoking and using more matches as they would get blown out. Another august person whose opinion was sought was Arthur Conan Doyle who had lately been on a ship sailing within the Arctic Circle. What was it like to endure endless day he was asked?
"Every day and every morn
Some to sweet delight are born
Some are born to sweet delight
Some are born to endless night"
So wrote William Blake.
Stevie Smith took this and twisted it with her wry, deathly humour to produce:
"Some are born to sweet delight
And some are born to sorrow
But only for a day
As we shall not be here tomorrow".
Still at least the winds of change are blowing through our streets today and the leaves are being shaken and swept from the trees.
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