Having spent all morning pondering blue moons, I was planning to go out and do some gardening this afternoon, but much to Model Dog's disgust, a sullen rain set in after lunch, so we have ventured nowhere.
A shame, as the list of gardening jobs is growing exponentially with the passing days.
I am not very fond of autumn.
There - I've said it, and will now run and hide behind the cupboards in case you all pelt me with rotten apples.
Most people love autumn, but I am not one of them. I hate the coming of September, which the In-Charge always takes personally, as he is a Virgo - his birthday was just last week.
If I lived in France it would be different.
I am as one with Joseph Addison who wrote in The Spectator on 31 May 1712:
'Could I transport myself with a wish from one country to another, I should choose to pass my winter in Spain, my Spring in Italy, my summer in England and my autumn in France.'
Autumn in France is glorious and beautiful. As I'm sure it is in countless other places. Italy has many fans (including my friend DodoWoman), and everyone knows Connecticut is famous for its 'Fall'.
But autumn in this neck of the woods is wild and mean. The leaves get blown away before they have had time to turn - even the Virginia Creeper is green one day, red the next and gone on the third.
And on top of that is is damp, cold and full of spiders who suddenly think they can move into any part of my house they fancy.
I have nothing against spiders outside. They can have the woodshed, the henhouse, the turfshed, the garden shed - any wretched shed they want, but they cannot have my house - especially my bedroom and bathroom!.
|The more you pick, the more you get|
Right, now that that's sorted and I have, so to speak, put my cards on the table, there is something that I love about this time of year.
|One of my favourite flowers|
The sweet peas always reach their peak now, and flower in a frenzy of scent and colour as if they too are marking off the days, measuring each moment of sunshine before some bitter wind wreaks havoc amongst their delicate tendrils and fragile beauty.
They are a total joy, and bunches of them have gone far and wide, as always.
The last breath of summer..