Assisted, no doubt, by the marked variations in their annual climate, the English have always had a strong sense of ‘season’. No one can read English literature without becoming conscious of how thoroughly the life of the middle and upper classes was organised around the ‘season’. Memories of the last one, anticipations of the next, helped get one through those bleak, featureless winters in the provinces. This seems quaint now, partly because we have been taught by marketing men to be intolerant of pursuits which do not have mass appeal, but mainly because we don’t expect our ritual stimuli to be so brief and so infrequent. Getting through the year is not supposed to be the problem any more. John Lennon caught the mood of the 60s and 70s more accurately with one of his last songs, Whatever Gets You Through The Night. To a generation demanding constant highs, even eight hours can be a problem.
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