How quickly we turn our backs on the summer.
As the calendar flips over to September, the dreams of Autumn begin. Talk of Christmas commences. What will we do, where will we be? Halloween goodies manifest themselves beside the mince pies, hoping desperately not to be forgotten. It’s our turn first, they insist as you pass them by.
As if Halloween isn’t the greatest holiday we have. As if Autumn isn’t the best season.
As if I haven’t been counting every day since last Autumn finished waiting for the next, daydreaming about longer sleeves and boots to crunch crispy leaves beneath.
As if I’m not Autumn’s child.
I can’t wait for the temperatures to drop, for BBC dramas to light the darker nights. For blankets and books and the hard ground. Soft jumpers and nests.
I’ve got it all planned out.
I’m done now, Summer. Move along.