Where has the year gone?

I can't believe we're almost into November, Christmas a mere jingle of a sleigh-bell away.

I've often said I could never live somewhere without discernible seasons. My brother resides in California where the climate is a toasty constant. On the few occasions I've visited with my wife and children we've lapped it up, enjoying the relaxed zing your skin takes on after a while in the sun.

But all year round, forever?

Don't get me wrong, I don't like endless freezing fog, torrential rain or weeks on end of snow. But in the right measure, winter's offerings are the perfect counterpoint to summer.

I love it that each of our seasons is three months long. Fed up with this one? Don't worry, the next will be along in a day or so.

While I love them all, I must confess to a passion for autumn.

It's not just because my birthday falls at the start of the season. It's also because of the peculiarly British customs and events in the calendar at this time of year.

Perhaps it's because of my predilection for all things macabre but I love the Grand Guignol excesses of Bonfire Night and Halloween.

The desire to be scared is a deep-rooted human psychological need.

We wrap our children up in cotton wool, but in reality they love to be petrified.

As a really young boy, I lapped up old movies like Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein, the darker Basil Rathbone Sherlock Holmeses and Boris Karloff's Universal movies.

Later, in my teens, I discovered the disturbing and misanthropic stories of Edgar Allan Poe and Ambrose Bierce and the unsettling adult tales of Roald Dahl.

My own kids love ghosts stories and when they were younger they were forever pleading with me to tell them spooky tales.

I made them all up, spinning out the thinnest of narratives to breaking point. I drew out the suspense to snapping point like an elastic band. And they would edge closer, wide-eyed, wanting to know what happened next.

I'd imply more and more horror, adhering to the axiom that less is more, aware the tension would perish if you caught a glimpse of the phantom.

I would push the story way beyond the point you would consider appropriate for young children. And they would love it.

That was until it was time to go to bed.

The number of times they would call and ask if they could come downstairs because they were too scared to sleep in their own rooms.

I would cuddle them and wipe away their tears. But I was secretly thrilled my storytelling had done its job.

Have a chilling autumn, everybody.