August derives its name from the roman emperor Augustus who if memory serves was the same chap who is suspected of murdering Cleopatra and who was himself murdered by his wife, or perhaps I am mixing Robert Graves up with Tacitus, both of whom I read rather too long ago.

At any rate Augustinian seems a suitable adjective for August, a month which begins its career in treachery as a mere hanger on of the much greater July and ends it in the feeling of another year passing as summer begins to decay into Autumn.

These diversions into ancient history and the premature inception of winter melancholy are merely transient emotions compared with the more distinct impression that I have had, for as long as I can remember, that August is the true turning point of the year.

In those sunny days of youth it was the last month of holiday before school restarted, the last chance to get outdoors and stay there doing whatever one wanted. August was the month of exam results, in the days when exams were much harder and really mattered, and August was the month when the cricket season truly blossomed, of Roses matches and Ashes, and of long lazy days just spent doing nothing very important.

It was in August that as a child of four I remember our little overcrowded house resounding to cries of joy and celebration at the birth of my younger brother and when the surrender of Japan was announced on the radio. I don't remember anybody talking about the atomic bomb, although they must have done, but I do remember the feeling that after the hard years of war, things would soon be getting better. They did of course, but much more slowly than everyone expected, but the 1944 Education Act worked its magic and opened up opportunities for many people, of which I was one, and we trundled on into the fifties, sixties and so on.

And many years later, in late August, I got married. We are still married, unlike many others. Perhaps August is not too bad after all. Let us have as many more of them as we can.