SEASONAL AFFECTIVE DISORDER..

It`s really not too surprising that I suffer from S.A.D. which seems to have become more acute as the years have rolled by.   Maybe there`s a direct correlation between anno domini and one`s degree of bewilderment but I have just about settled back unto `life` after an enjoyable if fleeting summer, only to be confronted by the almost terrifying prospect of what awaits me in the coming weeks.

First up is Halloween, yet another pointless import from America when all reason seems to go out of the window.   My doorbell gets rung, Barney barks and cowers in his corner, I open the door and pretend to be scared, demands are made and threats issued as I`m given a choice between trick or treat. It`s a bit like demanding with menaces. My immediate response is to say `I`ll have the treat, please,` whereupon the puzzled expression on angelic faces softens my curmudgeonly heart and I hand out the bowl of goodies I had hoped to enjoy later on.

Then Bonfire Night.  And that`s serious, especially if, like us, you have a paranoid schizophrenic Golden Retriever with a sensitive nature and a penchant for undisturbed sleep.   It`s a silly thing, of course, `celebrating` a failed attempt to blow up Parliament hundreds of years ago.  Had the attempt been successful then perhaps it might have provided some legitimacy for the  `celebration.`  But it`s very British, of course, to organise a celebration for something so deeply flawed.

And then Christmas - the season of goodwill - when like lemmings on the cliff we all fall for the annual extravaganza of celebrating Santa`s birthday.  And the New Year won`t be much better - more fireworks, more canine cowering in the corner - and the whole silly season conducted in the darkest, coldest, most miserable time of the year.

And just when you think things couldn`t get any sillier, along comes the ultimate silliness that is the Turner Prize.  There are four nominees this year - a set of chairs draped with fur coats;  a set of TV monitors showing interviews with conspiracy theorists;  a showroom of household items;  and a bevy of six warbling opera singers.   Quite apart from the sainted JMW spinning in his grave at this prospect, it surely is no coincidence that admission to the Glasgow exhibition is free to anyone daft enough to be interested.

And people wonder why I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder..........