The snow arrived too early this winter. Usually, all seasonal TV commercials feature Dickensian snowflakes falling gently on out-of-town superstores; in reality, most Christmas shopping is done in a light drizzle, with a thin jumper on. But not this time -2010 was notable as a year of four proper seasons. Spring switched on in Aprille (with his shoures soote) and leaves duly burst forth with Chaucerian vigour. Summer was hot and mostly dry. Autumn was a showroom swatch of colours from the Autumn range; a blaze of coppers, yellows and reds.

But these three were bookended by two absolute bastard winters. Day after day, news helicopters hovered over the landscape of what was described - inevitably - as "FROZEN BRITAIN!". This is a place where we grit our teeth but not many of our roads, and whole villages were cut off. (Despite this, the BBC managed to get camera crews everywhere. Deep within the bowels of Television Centre wait secret Thunderbirds-style vehicles that can reach any location, in order to get footage of how inaccessible that location is.)

Trench warfare

At times, it was as if the weather gods, angered by the sabotage of the Copenhagen climate summit, were determined to show that the
scientists were right: "global warming" means greater extremes of weather. In the winter, British front pages snickered: "Global Warming? But It's Cold!" even as Australians gasped in a 40° oven. The deniers-versus-believers ding-dong rattles tediously on but, at the start of the new year, let us climb out of the trenches and admit that, for reasons unknown, last year was cold, warm, hot and then cold again, and this pattern affects our political mood.

For British politics, 2010 was also a year of very definite seasonal changes. Labour's winter had been long and hard; it started all the way back in September 2007, when George Osborne ambushed the party over inheritance tax.

The poll barometer plunged and never recovered. By January, it seemed obvious that, far from being a blip, this was the start of a new Ice Age for Labour. But there could be no thaw until 2 May. On that date - like the poignant end of Raymond Briggs's The Snowman - Gordon Brown melted overnight, leaving behind him a scarf and a small radio-microphone. However, the long-range predictions had been wrong; the climate had shifted less than suspected. So the landslide did not happen and, instead, spring came in a much milder form than many had feared. To the horror of the Tory right, David Cameron did not win a majority and the coalition was born.

An unwonted warmth entered the air. There was much talk of a new era, of a sea change in politics; press conferences were given in the No 10 rose garden. Dave'n'Nick frolicked in the sudden sunshine like two bikini-clad lovelies on the first hot day of the year, and there were big pictures in all the papers.

A lazy summer followed. Ahead, in the autumn, lay the Spending Review, but no need to think about that yet. Despite the brief squall of the emergency Budget, most people seemed to think all the cuts could be made through "efficiency savings". And Labour had yet to choose a new leader. Life was a beach.

Autumn came and the first chill winds of reality began to blow. After interminable rounds of auditions, Labour's amorphous cloud of grumbling took the shape of Ed Miliband. The infant opposition began to mewl and puke and will rapidly gain size and weight. By the end of the year, it could be as tall as Cameron and be able to argue back. "Efficiency savings", meanwhile, turned out to mean the loss of hundreds of thousands of jobs and an upheaval in the benefits system, while corporate taxes continue to pour into Switzerland and Monaco instead of helping to pay off the debt that Britain incurred while saving the banks.

And students took to the streets, ungrateful at the prospect of starting their working life under a cloud of debt. The media half-heartedly tried to pretend the students were militants but it wasn't convincing, largely because these protesters were their own children; or, in some cases, the children of their rock heroes.

As the chill of December descended, bonfires were lit in Parliament Square and the royal protection squad decided that a vintage Ruritanian limo with clear-glass windows was the very best vehicle for driving into a riot. The police have suffered spending cuts as well; maybe their office was too cold for them to think straight.

Thin ice

The upshot was that the high levels of education that drive a modern economy must now be paid for by 20-year-olds with no jobs, rather than by the taxes of 50-year-olds with salaries, pensions and houses that have tripled in value in 15 years. Small wonder that a hard winter blew in fast. Support for the Lib Dems has frozen solid.

The political road, salted with optimism, is proving slippery and hazardous. Already, a pledge on prison-building has slid off the verge. Promises on immigration have been parked for the night. GP funding plans are on thin ice. And, to the disgust of the Tory right, the Chancellor went out like King Wenceslas, helping the poor man of Ireland to gather winter fuel.

Four proper seasons, then, and political climate change. Ministers are tucked up by the fireside over parliament's Christmas break, partly to make sure none of Santa's elves sneaks down the chimney with a hidden tape recorder; outside, the hoariest of political clichés is preparing a comeback - the "green shoots of recovery".

These little verdant spikes are the answer to everything: tax revenues, employment, job prospects for the debt-laden graduate. As the midwinter solstice passes, don't be fooled by economic pseudo-science - our leaders are just praying like druids for the return of the sun.

The writer and comedian Steve Punt is touring with Hugh Dennis from 8 January