A TALE FOR ALL SEASONS

SPRING By Eleanor Robertson -

Being born in the middle of an Australian summer is one of the worst things that has ever happened to me. Every year on my birthday I endure the kind of weather that makes you feel like you’re trapped inside an unwashed belly button: close, slick, humid. Half the time it’s gloomily overcast, as well. If I’m lucky, the air will become so thick with moisture that there’ll be tropical rain in the afternoon, drenching my laundry and pissing all over my al fresco birthday drinks. Not so for my friends whelped in the blessed months of September and October, whose efforts at surviving yet another fucking year outside the womb are rewarded with the second-best birthday present you can get: the bliss of spring. (The best gift is a big novelty cheque for a million bucks, obviously.)

Spring is a reminder that whatever terrible shit is going on, the planet still wants to nurture new life. It’s the end of seasonal affective disorder, the cheeping of newly hatched birds in the nest, and the renewed possibility of seeing people’s knees in public. Watching the deciduous tree outside my bedroom grow all its leaves back, the green shoots getting bigger by the day, is a more powerful antidepressant than every serotonin reuptake inhibitor known to man. (In the joyful and naive spirit of spring, please do not investigate the scientific accuracy of this claim.) I’d pay 10 per cent more tax on my income if it meant