The other day I cycled home from work as the sun hung low in the sky. The air was crisp and the wind cut through me harshly. Inside my head was a mess of the day just gone, snippets of conversation swirling endlessly around. When I reached the Common something snapped. The sun hit the top of the trees and all become golden. Silhouettes of branches cast on gold sky on the right, over – achieving, rugby playing Adonis – like young men to the right in all their clean cut glory.
And in that moment all was well.
I love it when the air has gone from end of summer haze to crisp autumn snap. I am revelling in wild rainy afternoons where I am safe and warm indoors, and bringing out all my knitwear for warmth.
Winter is coming.
I am excited. We went to the pub the other day, and as we left, there was that magical twinkly feeling of going somewhere in the dark, the lights and people's cheeks shining. There's nothing as festive as winter.
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