The Answer Is Probably 42

Just when you think you’ve finished a book, there’s always one more scene that needs writing, one more sentence that needs tweaking, one more word that needs juggling or changing, one more synonym to locate, one more everything to do.
At least it’s more fun than the weather at the moment, anyway.
Somebody has switched off the big central heating grid in the sky, with the result that instead of a nice gentle segue between summer and winter (formerly known as autumn) we are plunged, still clad in our shorts and vest tops, straight into the middle of what feels like a November squall. 
Ok, yes, I know I’m English, and the English are known for two things: queueing, and complaining about the weather. Actually, never mind the weather, the English are pretty good at complaining about anything and everything. Even about queueing.
But still, putting my melancholy heritage aside, isn’t there meant to be a season in between summer and winter? Or is it just me?
Anyway, the shorts are stashed, the vest tops now have jumpers over the top, and the boots have come out of storage and onto my protesting feet. Much as I hate to admit it, winter is a-coming in.
I don’t know why a whole season has vanished into the ether, but the answer is probably 42. (Isn’t everything?)