November Blues Begone

Even storm clouds have silver linings

Since the beginning of time — or at least, the beginning of the month system — November has had a terrible rep. In all fairness, I can’t say with true certainty that the Romans, when they came up with the calendar of Romulus in 750 BC, were explicitly slagging off ‘Mensis November’. The usual criticism of s*** weather and it not being Christmas yet probably wouldn’t have applied, but from the way people treat it nowadays, the plot of time from 1 to 30 November might as well have been condemned since creation.

This seems incredibly unfair to me. There is a lot to appreciate from our penultimate month of the year. For one, it's finally starting to get properly cold. The sea has mantled its bitten glass state; pavement slabs crunch with tossed salt; the grass now greets us with kisses of frost. My walk from ABH, through the void and into town, has adopted an austere, fairytale-esque, wispy, shimmering quality complete with a textured silver sheen.

The shorter days also bolster my case here. From 9am until noon and 1pm onwards, we live in an extended sunrise-sunset dreamscape where we are either greeting or ‘goodbye’-ing the cruelty of the day. Think of what a treat it is in summer to see the sunrise — the commitment one makes to trundle out of bed, the ache and pains of precious sleep lost. November marks the beginning of months where one only has to open the curtains to be bathed in golden light. It sits like eager robins on rooftops and tree branches, clears our skin for photos, and gives life a hazy montage-esque filter which pairs with study-induced delirium like mulled wine and rich dessert. 

But none of us seems to see this, caught up as we are in the cold (cosy sweaters), the dark (flash photography, general atmosphere), the deadlines (you chose to attend an academically rigorous university — buck up, sunshine). On reflection, I think the main gripe one comes across with November has nothing to do with what it is but rather with what it isn’t. This month is a period of no-longer-autumn, no more drawn-out evenings, not quite the holidays, not yet 2025. It can feel like either a half-arsed straggly tail end to autumn or worse, a precursor to Christmas — like the olives offered before the main course, as if anyone has ever gone out for the olives, got dressed up and left their home for the olives and not instead for the pizza which we actually selected from the menu and ordered.

But again, this is ridiculously unfair. November is an entirely different thing — it never made claims to be a holiday month or autumn for that matter. Imagine if we went through the rest of our lives judging things based on what they aren’t. “I don’t like soup because, even though it’s in a bowl, it’s not frozen and not sweet and doesn’t have dairy in it” and “I hate my new lecturer because, when she goes on stage, she doesn’t strip down to cargo capris and perform ‘Toxic’” are two things no one has ever said. So why does November get this sanctimonious slander? Why is it subject to an elitism of the months? Side note: If we were going to pick a month to collectively hate, March should surely be a stronger contender. It’s equally cold and equally devoid of public holidays. So why only November? Why not March? 

Life shouldn’t be a constant ramp-up to the next big thing. November is the month of knitwear and falling leaves and oat chais and suede. Look around, smile, take grunge photos of the sky, and appreciate where we are. This only comes once a year!

Illustration by Magdalena Yiacoumi