I’ve just this minute heard it on the News. Summertime has officially ended. That makes me feel cold all over. Did we have a summer this year? Did anybody spot it flying through? Did I blink?
Global Warming is certainly not baking the UK to a biscuit as scientifically forewarned. There are no sand dunes to be found other than at the beach where they usually are. No Saharan sun intensely bearing down upon us, burning holes in our fair freckled skin, and no Indian summer to bask in, as was the tantalising prediction of those mystic meteorologists when they peered into their crystal balls and consulted their astrology charts at the beginning of the year. I am still an English Rose with legs a shade of milk bottle white. Autumn is here, as predicable as the seasons are. Bang on time.
October was always my favourite month, apart from March which is also my favourite. One is an ending, a farewell to summer (those three days in May if I remember?), golden leaves and fruitful orchards. The other, has optimistic air of hope, with the appearance of tiny green buds and the lengthening days, a tantalising promise that we can emerge from hibernation and run wild and free like mad march hares. Alas, it's many months away. The frost is settling upon the soils, creeping with stealth in the night, like a murderous Midas, who rather than turning things to gold, touches upon the leaves which wither in despair and are blackened. Not a great time for gardeners. Shortly my mum's little patch of earth will resemble a packaging warehouse, and the pots will be cloaked in bubble wrap and the plants put to bed for the next half of a year. It all ends here.
The time has come to shake the moths out of your overcoat, button up, wrap up, zip up to the chin and still feel cold to the core in spite of the fact that you are wearing three woollen jumpers and a several thermal vests. I hate being cold. One joy however, beyond the constant chattering of teeth and numb shuffling about under the weighty layers of smothering wool like a mobile pile of washing, is that now I can also clump about in knee high boots, and dig out all those wonderfully itchy hand knitted scarves. Every Christmas (apologies for using that forbidden word just now) my Grandma would treat my sister and me to a present, and with unfaltering predictability as we ripped away at the wrapping, there inside would be a hand made hat, a pair of gloves joined together by a long string to keep them a pair, and a scarf longer than the one worn by Tom Baker's Doctor Who, and he is a tall man. I was a mere four foot. The hat would be a pudding basin affair and of course, would have to be worn in gratitude for the remainder of the day, itchy, hot, sweaty and intolerable. My tiny appearance resembled a vibrant woollen lollipop with a sharp scowl and a scarf trailing from my rash stricken neck with ten foot of it following behind me. It was just the correct length to trip over and stand on. Perhaps the resulting inquest would conclude; accidental death by garrotting with Grandma’s scarf. It hasn't put me off though. Perhaps it's comforting to snuggle up in a cosy neck blanket, stick my unnaturally large feet into boots which feel as if they fit, and go freely whirling around the park in the crisp fallen leaves and dance as Julie Andrews did in the opening credits of the Sound of Music. Perhaps it's a little more introspective than that in reality, as there is something sombre and contemplative about the autumnal atmosphere, and usually I just look grumpy.
I did once try to learn to knit and make a scarf of my own. I am however, left handed. This affliction apparently is a curse, and doing things back to front the cause of much ill temper and emotional frustration and I was once very nearly skewered by a rather large and frighteningly pointy knitting needle. My tutor had passed through the patience barrier and into insanity by my efforts. I must admit, the concrete row of unmovable knots that had welded to the sharp pointed stick in my hands didn't resemble anything like the pliable ones that were intended. I gave up. Is it worth the hours I wonder? Clicking away like clockwork novelty teeth and producing something that the local circus might use when they next get a tear in their marquee? My mum did once make a woollen jumper. It was beautiful. She was proud and so we're we. A thing of delicacy, crafted by her fair hands, it took months to make. It had to be hand washed so once dirtied, was duly dunked into the bathtub in warm water and left to gently soak. On its removal from the water it just kept on coming, folds and folds of wet wool until it filled the bathroom and she was smothered and trapped. It had magically undergone a metamorphosis and changed itself into a gigantic super jumper. It was a new concept in clothing, but the idea never really took off. The four of us decided to wear it together, not unlike a clumsy wigwam with eight legs, two very long arms, and four heads sticking out of the smoke hole, but it wasn't really so practical after all, especially when one of the group wanted to go off and do something on their own. It was true though, one size really does fit all.
So here I will wish you all a very happy autumn, and as Halloween is on the doorstep, that too. This inevitably means that there will also be on our doorsteps, dear little children begging. They make no effort to dress up anymore. Now their fathers furtively stand at the end of the path waiting to grapple me to the floor, the assumption being that I am a paedophile or a murderess, and then they ask me for my money? This will be a cause of constant irritation and grumpiness for a whole evening, and often, as dates are seemingly unimportant on such occasions, the rest of the week too. Autumn is a wonderful time of year indeed.
I’ve just this minute heard it on the News. Summertime has officially ended. That makes me feel cold all over. Did we have a summer this year? Did anybody spot it flying through? Did I blink?
Global Warming is certainly not baking the UK to a biscuit as scientifically forewarned. There are no sand dunes to be found other than at the beach where they usually are. No Saharan sun intensely bearing down upon us, burning holes in our fair freckled skin, and no Indian summer to bask in, as was the tantalising prediction of those mystic meteorologists when they peered into their crystal balls and consulted their astrology charts at the beginning of the year. I am still an English Rose with legs a shade of milk bottle white. Autumn is here, as predicable as the seasons are. Bang on time.
October was always my favourite month, apart from March which is also my favourite. One is an ending, a farewell to summer (those three days in May if I remember?), golden leaves and fruitful orchards. The other, has optimistic air of hope, with the appearance of tiny green buds and the lengthening days, a tantalising promise that we can emerge from hibernation and run wild and free like mad march hares. Alas, it's many months away. The frost is settling upon the soils, creeping with stealth in the night, like a murderous Midas, who rather than turning things to gold, touches upon the leaves which wither in despair and are blackened. Not a great time for gardeners. Shortly my mum's little patch of earth will resemble a packaging warehouse, and the pots will be cloaked in bubble wrap and the plants put to bed for the next half of a year. It all ends here.
The time has come to shake the moths out of your overcoat, button up, wrap up, zip up to the chin and still feel cold to the core in spite of the fact that you are wearing three woollen jumpers and a several thermal vests. I hate being cold. One joy however, beyond the constant chattering of teeth and numb shuffling about under the weighty layers of smothering wool like a mobile pile of washing, is that now I can also clump about in knee high boots, and dig out all those wonderfully itchy hand knitted scarves. Every Christmas (apologies for using that forbidden word just now) my Grandma would treat my sister and me to a present, and with unfaltering predictability as we ripped away at the wrapping, there inside would be a hand made hat, a pair of gloves joined together by a long string to keep them a pair, and a scarf longer than the one worn by Tom Baker's Doctor Who, and he is a tall man. I was a mere four foot. The hat would be a pudding basin affair and of course, would have to be worn in gratitude for the remainder of the day, itchy, hot, sweaty and intolerable. My tiny appearance resembled a vibrant woollen lollipop with a sharp scowl and a scarf trailing from my rash stricken neck with ten foot of it following behind me. It was just the correct length to trip over and stand on. Perhaps the resulting inquest would conclude; accidental death by garrotting with Grandma’s scarf. It hasn't put me off though. Perhaps it's comforting to snuggle up in a cosy neck blanket, stick my unnaturally large feet into boots which feel as if they fit, and go freely whirling around the park in the crisp fallen leaves and dance as Julie Andrews did in the opening credits of the Sound of Music. Perhaps it's a little more introspective than that in reality, as there is something sombre and contemplative about the autumnal atmosphere, and usually I just look grumpy.
I did once try to learn to knit and make a scarf of my own. I am however, left handed. This affliction apparently is a curse, and doing things back to front the cause of much ill temper and emotional frustration and I was once very nearly skewered by a rather large and frighteningly pointy knitting needle. My tutor had passed through the patience barrier and into insanity by my efforts. I must admit, the concrete row of unmovable knots that had welded to the sharp pointed stick in my hands didn't resemble anything like the pliable ones that were intended. I gave up. Is it worth the hours I wonder? Clicking away like clockwork novelty teeth and producing something that the local circus might use when they next get a tear in their marquee? My mum did once make a woollen jumper. It was beautiful. She was proud and so we're we. A thing of delicacy, crafted by her fair hands, it took months to make. It had to be hand washed so once dirtied, was duly dunked into the bathtub in warm water and left to gently soak. On its removal from the water it just kept on coming, folds and folds of wet wool until it filled the bathroom and she was smothered and trapped. It had magically undergone a metamorphosis and changed itself into a gigantic super jumper. It was a new concept in clothing, but the idea never really took off. The four of us decided to wear it together, not unlike a clumsy wigwam with eight legs, two very long arms, and four heads sticking out of the smoke hole, but it wasn't really so practical after all, especially when one of the group wanted to go off and do something on their own. It was true though, one size really does fit all.
So here I will wish you all a very happy autumn, and as Halloween is on the doorstep, that too. This inevitably means that there will also be on our doorsteps, dear little children begging. They make no effort to dress up anymore. Now their fathers furtively stand at the end of the path waiting to grapple me to the floor, the assumption being that I am a paedophile or a murderess, and then they ask me for my money? This will be a cause of constant irritation and grumpiness for a whole evening, and often, as dates are seemingly unimportant on such occasions, the rest of the week too. Autumn is a wonderful time of year indeed.