Can I do a jigsaw now?

I know that winter is not universally popular. People in frosty northern places often welcome the first snow, but after a few months of freezing temperatures, slippery sidewalks, icy windscreens and piles of dirty snowbanks at the side of the road, winter starts to lose its appeal. In southern England it’s the rain we dread. The damp, the mud, the flooding. But winter does have its upsides. I quite like the early twilight, when you draw the curtains in the late afternoon, keeping the cold and dark out and the warmth and light in. There’s a cosiness to winter that you don’t get at any other time of year. Damp and cold in the summer months just feel like an affront.

Once the winter arrives, it gives me an excuse to be even lazier than usual. I feel no guilt about the garden – there’s really nothing that needs to be done in those cold months. And housework becomes unnecessary. Those short, dark days mean that no-one can see the build-up of cat fur on the sofa or the dust on the mantelpiece. Long country walks become almost impossible due to the wet and mud. In fact, we very inadvisably marched out into the lovely sunshine a few days ago, only to encounter an enormous puddle with no way round, only through (this sounds like going on a bear hunt, doesn’t it?). I accepted my fate and squelched along with soggy socks for the rest of the walk, which was further enlivened by my tripping over a massive hole and falling over. Wet and grazed, I arrived gratefully at the café, where the Leek and Potato soup afforded only the smallest compensation. Wisely, I stayed at home yesterday, where I enjoyed delicious Broccoli and Stilton soup with dry feet and no holes to fall into. I have learned my lesson.

So, my question is this: When can I indulge guilt-free in my favourite winter pastimes – doing jigsaws and reading readable books. Now that we’re halfway through November, I think the time has come. I’ve done enough useful things since January and now I’m going to take the rest of the year off.  No more painting random pieces of furniture, no more gardening, no more arguing with utility companies, no more reading worthy books. Even though I never made it past page 169, I have taken Arundhati Roy’s beautifully written but supremely depressing The Ministry of Utmost Happiness (never was a title more misleading) to the charity shop and gratefully embraced Elizabeth Strout’s latest book. Perhaps I’ll tackle Che Guevara’s Motorcycle Diaries in the new year (or perhaps not), but next on my list is Kate Atkinson’s Shrines of Gaiety. These are the writers who’ll see me through those long, dark evenings.

And when I’m not reading, I’ll be working on a jigsaw puzzle. Something cosy and wintery depicting a world that never existed anywhere at any time. I can only cope with so much reality. Especially in the winter.