Hah! All I know is that July, which is always awful, was lovely.
All last week I sat in the sun like a happy fat man squatting in two feet of warm water with a chocolate fish.
It is the quixotic nature of my current health that, as a kidney transplantee, I should run from the sun like a mouse from a cat - the chances of melanoma are much higher for us - and yet my regular blood tests tell me I am lacking the very things sunshine brings to the body.
A rational man would find a medically sound compromise to this, but I have never been a rational man.
I just sit in the sun.
In summer, we have a sheltered secret garden up two flights of steps which is restful and quiet, trees all around us, birds, but in the winter, when the sun is lower in the sky, I sit out in the front of the house surveying the neighbourhood as the sun crawls around a 90deg arc before disappearing behind the trees.
I have a little windless alcove to sit in, right beside the motor for the Daikin heat pump.
But sitting next to a big thing pounding out noisy hot air isn't so bad, as evidenced by all the guests who front up every week on Murray Deaker's Sky TV show.
Now that my sight is back, I am hoovering up books in a wild and reckless abandon.
I pile them up on the Deaker beside me, and read bits from all of them in an illogical and completely undisciplined way.
Last Thursday morning for example, I went from Jaco, the biography of tragic doomed jazz bassist Jaco Pastorius, to Joe Bennett's highly readable Hello Dubai, then flicked through the egotistical gossip-strewn yet oddly compelling Peggy Guggenheim European art memoir Out Of This Century, before ending with Tom Rachman's riveting The Imperfectionists, proof of what politicians have been saying for years, journalists write wonderful fiction.
There is something about the sun beaming down on the brain.
It has to be doing some good, otherwise, why would it have been invented? I would be very surprised if it says in Wikipedia that the sun was invented to give us Lupus.
I do cover up, I'm not stupid.
An overly Australian floppy hat bought in Noosa to ward off insects covers the ears and neck as well as the head, and I pull the long sleeves of the Ralph Lauren polo sweater I erroneously bought thinking I was that size right over my hands until the ends hang down like socks on a clothes line.
It is not yet hot enough to bare the arms, that will be February.
There was plenty to watch in July.
We look over the new home for NHNZ, which has employed tribes of tradesmen for months gutting and refurbishing a building that cried out to be gutted and refurbished.
Now creative people are rushing through the doors carrying, I can only presume, film of dangerous spiders and orangutans with neo-human DNAs.
It is all very exciting.
There are lots of these people, and creative television people need coffee, or else they will just produce game shows.
Where is the café that will sustain them? I await with interest whether one of the city's fiscal entrepreneurs is going to respond.
I can smell the potential profits from the Deaker.
As late afternoon beckons and the hour is nigh for the Toyota Ist to roar up the drive bringing my wife home from school, I scuttle inside with my books, take off the floppy hat, and sit at the computer as if I have been slaving there since sun-up.
"Busy day?" she will ask solicitously.
"It's been murder," I will reply.
"Sometimes I swear I have no idea where the time goes."
Roy Colbert is a Dunedin writer.
