Having only just picked my bottom jaw off the floor after remembering that this year will have very likely been the last time I partake in a September “first day back”, I am currently languishing in weather-limbo, of the kind where to begin with the day is so pleasant that I would, briefly, consider leaving the house in a grass skirt and a bra made from two halves of a coconut shell, sipping a piña colada- had it not been for the fact that there will be a 100% chance a few hours later of the undesirable combination of ice cold rain and a wild gale powerful enough to blow my hat off my head and all the way down the entire length of the road, as I gallop after it, feeling outsmarted.
|Would YOU trust this creep?|
But a quick Google image search of “autumn” yields hundreds of results of rather gorgeous forest clearings, bathed in the red and yellow light of leaves from the canopy above, and lined with crispy leaves underfoot- the kind of place where, if you were there, it would be tempting to laugh toothily in slow motion, wearing a bobble hat, and pretend you were on a billboard in Matalan. I suspect that someone has jazzed up the colour schemes of these pictures a little post-production so that everything looks a little less... brown. But even in all its brownness, the forest is where autumn really happens, as folks who live there will know; such as your local child-catcher, or that miserable git Badger from Wind in the Willows. They are amongst those who get to experience autumn first-hand, and have it infinitely better than I; who, whilst peering out of my window in central Birmingham, can see a multi-storey car park, an Argos, and the city’s only four trees, which, to add insult to injury, are stubbornly refusing to turn any colour other than that of a floret of rotting broccoli in a compost bin.
But, I shall cease to whinge, as there is a far more terrible beast squatting around the corner on its haunches, the most traumatic season of all, the W-word, the season that Shall Not Be Named. The season where every time you leave the house, the sub-zero temperature leads to you feeling like you have been punched in the ears AND throat by an irate silverback gorilla. Meanwhile I will have to busy myself with honing my Bucks Fizz-style outfit changes to avoid being caught out in thermal long johns when it turns out to be the hottest day of the year. Tbh, it’s probably easier if we all just hibernate.