Tuesday, 12 November 2002 | The shape of a year

If I had to draw what the year looks like in my head, I would draw a rounded rectangle, with summer at the top—July in the middle, and June and August hanging over the curved edges. September, October, and November would be stacked down the left side, the last days of November bending around the southwest corner. December would suspiciously take up the whole of the bottom, and most of winter and all of spring would be crammed on the right-hand side.

I have known since I was quite young that the bulk of December falls into autumn, and I have always known that it has roughly the same number of days as the other months. Yet I refuse to give up this picture; or, more precisely, I'm unable.

Numbers start at the bottom and move upward, though I'm pretty sure they are positioned diagonally. Come to think of it, my year-rectangle is diagonal too, maybe even 3-D. Days of the week sit on an oval, with Saturday and Sunday greedily spreading themselves out over the whole left side. Time is on a zigzag line, with seven o'clock a.m. sitting at a nadir and climbing upward toward the left, reaching its zenith at about one a.m.

They are like primitive maps: vastly inaccurate but useful sketches that help me pinpoint and remember. When I do remember a date or a time, it's usually because I see it somewhere on the lop-sided shapes I once drew with my juvenile brain.