Brr-ing on winter, it's so cuddly.

Byline: Lindsay Bruce

WHEN I woke up this morning it was dark, cold and for my other half, the beginning of the end. With a hatred of winter and a love for all things bright and breezy he cocooned himself in the duvet the second my fleecy pyjama-clad body left the bed.

For me, however, I had a spring in my step. Seeing my reflection in the blackness of the outside pressing against the kitchen window, signaled the beginning of my favourite time of all - the winter. Okay, so I have bypassed autumn. But apart from the greenery becoming brownery they're more or less the same.

Winter, I find, is simply fabulous. Take the food. Is there anything better in life than a bowl of hot home-made soup with a crusty roll? And butter. Butter is acceptable in the winter. Hot buttered toast, buttered teacakes, mashed potato with, you've guessed it, butter. It's comfort-food-tastic.

And for the ridiculously self-conscious among us there could be no better season. Jumpers, scarves, coats and hats. It's like fashion decides to give you a break from "fitted" and "sleeveless" and instead offers a warm, cashmere cuddle.

Actually, in my seven years of marriage I have spent at least four winters at varying stages of pregnancies. It became so frequent I was actually asked if I would be Santa for the Christmas service at church. Now, in summer I would get angry at anyone drawing parallels between a fat, red-faced male OAP and myself. In winter? Ho Ho Ho. What a laugh!

I also remember with fondness my Papa singing me an old Scots' song called "Roamin' in the gloamin" - the gloamin' being time the time of day when it's not completely dark but the sun is no longer out. Winter and the gloamin' are inextricably linked in my mind.

The winter even smells better.

Cinnamon, pine cones, cinnamon-scented pine cones... The twenty times I was soaked to the skin from sleety rain and snow last year can even be forgiven with a tall gingerbread latte and a piece of aromatic cinnamon toast.

Okay so I'm not mentioning the impending sense of doom that comes with the cost of Christmas, the never-ending cycle of blocked nose vs runny nose and the endless washing caused by a clumsy four-year-old, puddles and a basic lack of understanding on how to choose between wellies and gym shoes.

But look at the up side ladies, no need for blusher - red cheeks are free and according to Marie Claire, exemplify the "English Rose" look. Pah. last year, an elderly gent from church hugged me, and said, "Ee, with those cheeks and your build you remind me of a farmer's wife I met in the Dales once."

Even as a Scot I'll go for English Rose, thanks very much.

The twenty times I was soaked to the skin from sleety rain and snow last year can even be forgiven with a tall gingerbread latte and a piece of aromatic cinnamon toast