Catching a Rainbow

A Man for All seasons
One thing about living in rural France is that you soon realise just how noisy it is. The harvest has begun; the corn is in, the Blé Noir yet to be cut. Here they have a day of celebration just for a bean, the Coco de Paimpol AOC, so you can see they take their farming seriously.
Apart from the dust of tractors and harvesters living within such a strong farming community led me to dwell on the passing of the seasons and growing older. Something Shakespeare would have no doubt called a melancholy but which my wife just calls me being miserable.
This all came about the other day when I told Bex that I had been reflecting on how the autumn of my life was going. She quickly assured me that she was far too young to be involved let alone married to anyone who was even thinking of an autumn lifestyle.
I am now forty-six years old and I had got to forty-five years -364 days old without any grey hairs at all. Then, on my last birthday, wham, what do I find but a grey hair. Since then they have been reproducing exponentially which I am not altogether pleased about. No grey pubic hairs at the moment...but when that happens I will let you know.
Some loose their hair. I have a different problem, it has started growing in a host of different unwanted places...which I produce as categorical evidence that the Theory of Evolution is a crock of pooh. If I needed hair sprouting from my ears, I would have needed it as a child to get me through the first few years. Hairy ears at 46 is of no evolutionary benefit and as such must be the work of a Divine Creator, albeit with a warped sense of humour.
My nasal hair is getting longer and for some bizarre reason my moustache is growing higher...I do not know whether to pluck my moustache or shave my nose...it is all very disturbing at my stage of life.
Which brings me back to the seasons of life. 80 years old seems an attainable age these days, which if you think that 0-20 is spring and 20-40 is summer then I am in the autumn of my life, which left me dwelling once again on unwanted hair and the fact that I sometimes groan when I bend to pick things of the floor.
My exuberant wife reminded me that winter begins in December not January and so my time scale was all out of kilter. She however refused to accept that the 10 days difference from the 1st Day of winter 21st December, was not going to make a great difference. There is nothing for it I am definitely in the autumn of my life...but I am happy.
Then I hit on a great idea to make myself feel younger.
There are 365 days in a year and if we live for lets say 80 years, then one year would equal 4.6 days, that is if our whole life were just one year that starts on the 1st December.
I am 46 years old, which equals 211 days on a one-year scale...which means I am June the 1st old, so much better than 46 and still early in the summer.
I really think this could catch on...