On the 2nd of February this year, Groundhog Day, a group of soberly-dressed men in top hats gathered around a small, wooden hut to forcibly remove a squat rodent from his winter slumber. Under the guise of meteorology, the men pressed the small animal for a weather forecast. For most creatures, relaying information about the weather around them in a way that is intelligible to humans is tricky enough, but as the small town of Punxsutawney’s resident Groundhog, this particular specimen of marmota monax was being expected predict the weather for the next six weeks. Under duress, the animal – or Punxsutawney Phil, as people are insistent on calling it – predicted an early spring. The townspeople – dizzy from excitement, roasted meats and novelty beer – acknowledged the furry creature’s judgement as conclusive and retired home happy, bellies full.

Fast-forward to now and it has transpired that not only has spring failed to arrive early, but winter has decided to hang around for longer than the six weeks that Punxsutawney expects their most privileged burrow-dwelling creature to have an insight into. The six and a half thousand people of the small Pennsylvania town are apparently outraged. Many are calling for the Groundhog’s resignation, others its exile, and a small but very vocal minority,  a delicious honey roast.

The failure to deliver a satisfying account of the next month and a half’s weather is yet another blow for the unfortunate creature: its previous job as the town’s Woodchuck lasted less than a week when it quickly dawned on the animal’s employers that the task of hurling timber was still beyond the species; a brief tenure as a Land-Beaver was similarly short-lived, with there being little need for damming facilities on dry ground; and although a part-time role as a Whistle-Pig kept Punxsutawney Phil in employment for a fair stretch of time, there was no future in the position, with the related duties ambiguous to even the employers.

In all fairness to the Groundhog, the people of Punxsutawney shouldn’t have expected much more. Although the public are often informed that the rodent’s predictions are right 75%-90% of the time, in reality the success rate is little more than 39% – which is only slightly better than chance. When it comes to making accurate weather forecasts, marmots, it turns out, are unreliable at best. Excellent at burrowing, mind you – terrific burrowers, marmots.

However, as I read news of the hibernal angst being directed at the innocuous rodent it slowly occurred to me that the Groundhog celebrations observed every February 2nd by townsfolk across Northern America and Canada aren’t, at base, about predicting the weather at all; rather, these communal gatherings serve as a form of release valve for the melancholy, existential concerns that grip humanity between the months of January and March every year. Punxsutawney Phil and his ilk are symbols of optimism for us simple beings, who seemingly forget, every year, what a winter is, and then spend months quietly wondering what it might want from us.

I make no claims of being the first to shed light on this; indeed anyone with any taste in ‘90s science-fiction, romantic, black-comedy drama will know fine well that Bill Murray got there first with his film about the annual event. For the uninitiated, Murray – in disguise as a network news reporter Phil Connors – travels to Punxsutawney to cover the celebration, and in a strange twist, finds himself living the same day in the same town over and over again until he can figure out a way of getting his end away with Andie MacDowell. For those with any interest in the classics, the film is essentially an update of the ancient Greek myth of Sisyphus and explores themes such as eternity, the futility of existence and free will. But most importantly, it has Bill Murray sneering, frowning and wise-cracking throughout, which is just great.

Bill Murray aside, it has become clear to me recently that I have been living something of a ‘Groundhog Day’ myself. Dates purportedly change, hairs on my face continue to grow – a sexual relationship with Andie MacDowell remains ever elusive – but other than that, more or less all of the themes remain concordant: the same old day, in the same cold town, with the same worries, doubts and weather. I’ve actually written this ‘piece’ 37 times over, with varying results – a lot seeming to depend on what I do with the semicolons, interestingly.

What can break this tiresome chain of repetition? The sudden death of an A-list celebrity? A refreshing fizzy pop? In certain respects it feels as though I need sunshine to move on with my life – to feel as though time is moving forward again, instead of meandering around in a tight circle; its hands in its coat pockets, muttering.

I know many others that feel the same way. Every day, a certain number of statuses on Facebook are given over to bewildered, angry cries of incredulity concerning winters ongoing march. “OMG SOOOOO COLDDDD!!! WTF SPRING?!!!?” one reads, “Want it to be summer nowwww lol 😦 “ says another. I’m don’t personally know what kind of emotion the combination of ‘lol’ and ‘ 😦 ‘ is intended to convey, but its potentially quite indicative of the confusion that the unceasingly cold weather is generating among the hordes.

We should be stronger than this, but with no furry marmot to speak of – no burrowing beacon of hope to light our path to sunnier times – we turn to a social network to air our anguish. We are all trapped in an apparently perpetual cycle of chilly air, cloudy skies and non-event days – waking up every morning, hoping and praying that Sonny and Cher don’t get another play on our radio alarms. That’s a metaphor, that bit.

It’s Good Friday tomorrow, so even if the good weather continues to elude us, the sudden realisation that a lot of our favourite commercial outlets aren’t open will shock at least some of us out of our recurrent state. Others will no doubt be thrown into a momentary panic, as they deal with the possibility that they’ve been catapulted backwards in time to Christmas. “FUCKKK! Lol 😦 ” they’ll no doubt exclaim.

Either way, at least something will be different. Hopefully. I’m afraid that’s all I can offer in the way of a concluding paragraph. I can’t give you any real estimate of when spring will truly arrive, or if it will even arrive at all, but then, neither can a Groundhog – and that’s its actual job.