the autumn

It's here, isn't it. I keep feeling as if it's nearly October. It might be an effect of having had three glorious, hot months off work and now being office-bound with a jacket on the back of my chair; or it might be the yellowing leaves on the tree right under my balcony. It could even be the general air of decay in the world, with clear plastic bags on airplanes, radical jihadists in Walthamstow, the world divided between Israel and Lebanon, and the whole situation.

But every August does this. Sandals or shoes? Even the sunsets over Ally Pally are not what they were a month ago - however tranquil and blue and however wonderfully the geese may fly past as they leave Clissold Park.

Clearly I need rejuvenating and the detox diet is not doing it* - in fact a £1.50 1/3 bottle of tempranillo (Spain's Noble Grape, and I'll go along with that) tells me it's not doing it. EastEnders certainly isn't doing it (I see Wendy Richards has quit, and in my relief I'm only irritated by the fact that she's only quitting because of the violence those poxy script people are doing to the character of Pauline Fowler. So we can't even hate her...)!

I have all the new clothes my semi-Baroque wardrobe can hold. Shoes and boots galore would be lovely but the hallway won't take it. The shelves are groaning with fine and near-fine copies of everything I love. The vegetable drawer is full. I managed to squeeze most of the slipcover back onto the couch, which is endearingly called Caruso. The kids are healthy and my sister's a grandmother. (Jane - oops!)

Any more ideas?

* Note from future: this turned out to be the gall stones.