People seem to think it goes without saying that you have a favourite season. I’m not sure who exactly I’m referring to by ‘people’ but I’m sure I’ve been asked on several occasions and I never have a definitive answer. The only thing I know for sure is it’s never the one we’re in at the time.

I have romantic notions of winter. I picture it as snowy roads, street lights and everyone wrapped in cosy scarves and hats full of Christmas cheer. In reality though most of Christmas cheer is gone by the time winter gets into full swing. Snow turns to slush, slush turns to ice and ice means you have to walk everywhere in fear of falling over on your bum in some embarrassing manner. And no matter how many layers of wool you have on you can never be warm enough. So winter is out of the question.

If all of Christmas cheer is over before winter then it must belong to autumn. But when I think of autumn I think of biting winds and constant rain. Not exactly idyllic.

Summer is nice enough in concept but as a hay fever and heat rash sufferer with pale skin that refuses to tan and needs to stay hidden underneath long sleeves and jeans, summer is much more stress than it is worth.

So that leaves me with spring. A season that for the past 20 years of my life has been synonymous with deadlines and exams. But that phase of my life is over. I can enjoy the frolicking lambs in the fields and daffodil lined lanes (this makes it sound like I live a Thomas Hardy novel which I really don’t – thank god) rather than being trapped in my bedroom surrounded by mountains of textbooks which are somehow magically supposed to be crammed into my brain and then spewed out in coherent sentences in one hectic hour of writing. This year I can look out the window at the blue skies (or heavy rain – they’re not called April showers for nothing) and for the first time properly enjoy spring. So I think it might take the title of my favourite season.