"… spring in Melbourne is an elusive phenomenon, a largely theoretical construct. It finds expression less in the behaviour of the elements than in the expectations of the population. It arrives because, having endured winter, we deserve it."

...... Shane Maloney, The Big Ask

I awoke one morning to find these words posted as a status line on a friend's FaceBook page. I personally endured the Melbourne winter by forming a close relationship with my new appreciation of S.A.D. (Seasonal Affected Disorder). Essentially, S.A.D. is that state of mind which eventually drove the Carpenters to write the song, Rainy Days and Mondays. I took immediate liking to this description of the Melbourne spring or lack of it. One dreary day had been leading to another as five cold, rainy days became six drizzling, apathetic eternities. It was late September and still there had been no change in thewintery bluster of southerly storms. There was so much pent up tension, cabin fever and frustration from being smothered by the gray dull above, that when the cork finally came off, it popped.

A week or so earlier, a tree cutter guy had been around Kelly's house to lop down an old, leaning rag of a large twig. More or less, this thing looked like an overgrown version of Charlie Brown's Christmas tree. It was firewood just waiting to happen and it simply took a kind man with a chain saw to arrange it into something more feasible for burning in the back yard fire pit. As is most often when removing a tree, there is a stump left behind. The suburban PaulBunyon cut a few holes in the face of the stump and said to drop some weed killer and diesel on it. While that sounded like a charming cocktail and would most assuredly work, in light of the fact that the guy was a professional tree chopper-upper, Kelly and I began discussing the prospect of digging the stump out. These discussions were to last a few days due to the continuation of the cold and dreary conditions, but suffice it to say that the stump was definitely on the "to-do" list.

I kept an eye on the weather page of my iGoogle feed. A nice day was approaching with all the rapidity of a watched kettle on its inevitable journey towards the boil. But boil it does and in due course, a fine day arrived in Melbourne. There was t-shirt wearing and sunglasses required. One who hails from a less tropical upbringing than my own, would have surely sought out the sunscreen. It had all of the hallmarks of the spring day so eagerly expected and so unashamedly deserved. All of the hallmarks, save one. I was angry; no, I was furious. About what is of little concern. Even as I reflect back on it now, the dim memory of the anger is far less apparent than the overwhelming recognition of its represented frustration looking for an outlet.

An outlet it found in the stubby remains of a shabby tree. Armed with a small hatchet, I set upon the stump with vigour and the fury of my pent up angst. Wood chips flew in all directions as the repetitive sound of my hatchet blows echoed in the small back yard. Again and again, I flowed my anger, rage, frustration and self-pity through my arm and hammered it into the wooden grain of the resistant stump. I dug and I prodded and then I hacked some more. I heard the words of Samuel L Jackson's character in Pulp Fiction run through my mind as I brought my own wrath of great vengeance and furious anger down upon the stump. I released; I exhausted myself and yet, the stump remained.

Through a lifetime of dealing with anger issues, I have found a few things to be true for my situation. There is no point in denying anger. There is no point in suppressing anger. There is definitely no point in the inappropriate and/or hurtful expressions of anger. Simply put, anger happens; deal with it appropriately. On this day I did. The stump didn't care why I was hacking it to little bits. In the mind of many a tree hugger, it may well have minded that it was being hacked up in the first place, but I seriously doubt that my motivation would have made any difference to it at all. My anger was released and the frustration was given expression. However, the stump, in its persistence of existence, had become a challenge that would not slip idly by.

The next two days remained rain free. The sun occasionally broke through the clouds for a moment or two and the temperature was somewhere north of bits-numbing cold. It was good hacking weather. Each day, I set upon the stump with my trusty hatchet and kitchen spoon turning digging tool. The stump was coming out in pieces. First a large root section across one side and then another section just past the chunky, forked root in the front. The hole was getting larger and the complicated weaving of the root structure was defeating every thought of "this might be the last one". What was needed was a crowbar and a big one at that. Good thing that there is, within the rank of friends in Melbourne, a trusty firefighter with a Tim "TheToolman" Taylor-like affinity for large metal things. Thanks "Whick", your loan to the cause was greatly appreciated.

On day three, I added to my arsenal of tools, one girlfriend, Kelly decided she wanted to help, and one large and still somewhat blue crowbar. It was a real crowbar; one used for busting down doors and saving small children whilst carrying the family's beloved Fido under one arm. It was a hero's crowbar; one that could easily snap open the doors of a crushed vehicle and provide access for the life-saving paramedics. It was a man's crowbar, one that could radiate it's overt phallic representations in the merest of glimpses. And it was with this mighty crowbar that Kelly, with her diminutive, delicate and delectable frame, did finally wrest free the cantankerous stump. And I, with all of the sentiment of a man who had just loosened the sauce jar lid only to have his wife open it, cheered and sang the bawdy tune of Ding-Dong-The Stump is Dead.

In the game of cricket, it is common for the umpire to declare, "That's stumps!" at the end of a day's play. The final over is bowled and the wicket bails are removed. Its a signal of finality, at least for the day. Since the death of stump, the hole has been filled and the carcass of stump lies overturned on the concrete tiles of the back patio. Each day has grown longer and a few more rays of sunlight breach the clouds. With the weather changing and each day bringing the pendulum swing a bit further towards the inevitable comfort of summer, to winter I say, "That's stumps!"