My obsession with Autumn drives my friends (and husband) crazy. They are fully fledged summer hedonists who weep when the rosé finally runs dry and beg for one last trip to the beach/barbecue/just bar actually, anything other than reality.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve loved the boating, beaching, donuting, binge drinking ways of summer. I’ve enjoyed the burgers and hot dogs and the fact that kale disappeared off the menu for a full four weeks.
But Autumn is my spiritual season. It’s scouring the hedgerows for berries and sloes which will rot and be chucked away 5 days later. It’s going to Smith’s to buy our 430th geometry set and picking up five new notebooks for myself instead. It’s red wine rather than white, preferably very expensive and from Yapp Brothers. It's going to check out the colours at Stourhead and getting waylaid at the pub on the way. (I'm saving it for my seventies).
It’s cashmere jumpers and boots not flip flops and bikinis, it’s Jamie Oliver’s beef casserole not Mimi Spencer’s 5 bloody 2.
In my head the 5 of us will be sofa bound watching X Factor on a Saturday night (reality my husband and eldest son, would run naked through the streets of Salisbury rather than watch it).
There is nothing, nothing, I don’t like about September, October, November and December. And yes, January’s a bitch but it doesn’t matter because in January I’m moving to Ibiza.