Hey, Antonio, give it a rest!

Seasonal workers are often in short supply across Tasmania and while I do not fall into that category my habits certainly do.

As I age, or kindlier - mature, my life feels broken into parts like seasons.

And while it was once spring and summer that I most cherished because of cricket, spring now drives me mad.

Seasons change as the earth tilts and rotates around an invisible axis. Therefore, when it is winter in the northern hemisphere it is summer in southern hemisphere where the earth is closer to the sun.

If you are clever and/or rich and/or retired, you could chase the sun each year. Just imagine the joy of living in a state of constant summer!

Our past winter months felt mild. I certainly do not have any Bureau of Meteorology data to back this claim, it is just a hypothesis, experience perhaps that makes me feel like winter was not as long or cold.

The winter months are for hibernation; early nights and late mornings where you can find peace.

Animals like bears hibernate and reptiles like snakes do similarly but it is called brumation. Their body temperature drops, and they sleep, relying only on very small amounts of food and water.

Unfortunately, for me, hibernation, which should be relying on fat stores to get through the dormant months, becomes an opportunity to pile on a winter midriff that should have been dropping off in preparation for summer.

A crisp cold beer is no longer on the drinks list as I opt for dark ales and stouts like Guinness complemented by local boutique varieties.

There is probably a scientific concept underpinning my deliberate shift from cold-filtered to dark but it's Sunday and I have no desire to commit to further research.

And it is not just the consumption of food and drink which changes during the winter months.

My constant companion, music, also shifts on the wireless dial with ABC Classic becoming the station of choice. I yearn for melancholic, swoon style orchestral pieces from composers like Brahams, Mahler, Debussy, and, my go to, Edward Elgar.

My love for winter swoon has its origins from an incredibly special night listening to the late Tasmanian composer Peter Sculthorpe speaking of his music.

Sculthorpe was a genius and remains world-renowned.

Swoon is dark and moody and appeals to my melancholic tendencies. I do not think bad thoughts, yet swoon warms my soul and makes me think about my lot in life.

And then spring arrives, and I shift.

In the last few months of August, the environment begins to change, and all manner of antihistamines find their way from the medicine box in the back of the pantry to the front.

At some point I will develop an annoying cough, which just cannot be satisfied, tickling the back of my throat like a scratched vinyl where the needle is desperately trying to locate the groove.

ABC Classic shifts to Triple J, reliving younger days, although, from experience, the youth radio station does not last long in spring, and I wait for summer to try again.

So, I settle for Double J with the presenters often formally of Triple J fame providing a voice and soundtrack that, again, stimulates memories of younger years.

As a traveller, not in the Outlander sense, who can articulate each section of roadworks and stretch and bend on the Midland Highway, the wireless keeps me company, lessening the monotony of driving and providing much needed comfort and relaxation.

But spring has sprung, and it makes me agitated.

There are those who feel dramatically upbeat due to the change in temperature, sunlight, and longer days.

Yet all I can think about is pollen and ryegrass and sneezing every time I shave because the cream has a perfumed scent.

I flick the switch to miserable.

The Italian Baroque composer Antonio Vivaldi portrayed his views of spring in his most famous work, The Four Seasons, composed in 1770 and published five years later, four separate violin concertos that capture the earth's tilt and its relationship to the sun.

Spring annoys me no end.

Upbeat and flowery and jogging-on with a spring in your step, the repetitive orchestral phrases are like a person banging about how great they were or how talented their kids are when all you want is quiet.

I have no doubt that Spring is brilliant, but it is finnicky and repetitive all the same, the sort of arrangement that you would not set for your early morning pre-work alarm.

Each concerto was linked to a sonnet:

Spring has arrived with joy

Welcomed by the birds with happy songs,

And the brooks, amidst gentle breezes,

Murmur sweetly as they flow.

It will not be long before we are searching for seasonal workers across Tasmania.

In the meantime, I will resort to two antihistamines per day when they are supposed to provide coverage for 24 hours.

And, hey, Antonio, give it a rest.