AUTUMN HAS ARRIVED 2024

I'm feeling SO cold today. Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

It's clearly time to pack away my summer trousers with their thin material that expose my lower legs; time to put away the short-sleeved tops; time to get my leather shoes out and put away my lightweight trainers, that feel a bit damp from wet grass and are therfore making me feel even more chilly. Time for vests and socks and jerseys; to snuggle under a blanket on the sofa in the evening... One good thing is I personally don't do so much ironing at this time of year - not that I dislike ironing, it's just time-consuming!

But don't we all feel a bit cheated? Ok so there were some hot sunny days but many of us had to watch them through the window from work. There were more cool sunny days; some hot cloudy days... and more rain than I can remember ever in my life before.

I'm not really complaining - we do like to complain in the UK, proabaly because the weather is always so unpredictable and varied. We like to plan events to take place outside and it's always completely hit and miss. I actually love all the variety we get in the UK. I enjoy the seasons and the differing lengths of day - it would be boring if it were too predictable

Today it has been chilly. A slightly spiteful wind nips at you; the sun keeps trying but never manages a very long stint before the clouds cover it again. I went to read my book, 'Chloe and the Bright Idea' to a school of 650 children, and that was precious. As they filed in to the main hall, all neat and new in their uniforms, they had to sing along to an uplifting song on the big screen about being important, valued members of the world. It was SO moving I was nearly in tears before I'd even started - such a lovely message; such postitive teaching; such inclusivity...

They loved hearing my story, and then I was off again, in a gust of autumnal wind, like a little leaf.

Here's what John Keats had to say about Autumn in his lovely poem - enjoy!

TO AUTUMN by John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.