August is the month when it starts to become noticeable that the evenings are getting not only earlier, but shorter. The very atmosphere feels arid as the grandeur fades. If August could be personified, it would probably take the form of Miss Havisham.
When September gets under way we’re becoming accustomed to the onset of autumn when the land grows torpid; a sense of wholesome mellowness sets in and the colour of decay delights the eye. But as the crops stand ripe in the fields just waiting to be cut down, August is simply a reminder of how short the summer is.
And I probably wrote the same thing in slightly different words this time last year. As I said, August is rarely a favourite month of mine.