Ode to Autumn

Autumn, the king of seasons.  Royal golds and regal reds set fire to the trees.  The weak morning sunshine streaming through the slit in my curtains is transformed to a warm glow.  You can hear this season, it whispers through cracks and under doors, or roars at you in open spaces.  You add you own accompaniments, the parched leaves shattering underfoot with a familiar crunch.  I live beneath two ancient oak trees and they release their acorns in one fail swoop every year.  Outside my front door lies nature’s answer to bubble wrap, the satisfaction of each step is toe curling.  Suddenly all I want is coffee; coffee while I’m sat in the sun, outside a café, snuggled into my hat and scarf.  Cheshire cat grin, squinting towards the sky.  Scarves.  What a revelation.  I relish the moment when I leave the house and think, ‘oooh now, that’s a bit fresh, better get a scarf’.  I have an entire draw devoted to this humble accessory (when you have limited wardrobe space this is excessive, trust me).  An addition to this addiction has been hats.  I lived for a long time under the impression that I wasn’t a ‘hat person’ (I am also not a sunglasses person, or a dog person) but I must overcome my fear, as frankly, hats are cool. 

As the months grow darker Autumn has not just one, but two festivals to lift your spirits.  As a child I would look forward to Halloween with all the excitement of Christmas.  Hours would be spent fantasising about my outfit.  On my first ever Halloween, my mother bought me a clowns costume.  There was a yellow and white plastic polka dotted bow tie, comedically oversized in comparison to my three-year-old head.  A wig of rainbow colours and obviously the obligatory face paint.  I must have cut a fearsome figure as the two little boys who arrived for a trick-or-treating excursion burst into tears when they saw me.  I am still somewhat contented with this memory.  Only a few days later you find yourself strategically choosing layers to ward off the frosty night air as you stand in a field, craning your neck upwards as explosions of colour shimmer against a slate black sky.  Is there something morbid about celebrating the failed attempt of essentially our first terrorist?  Burning effigies certainly have something of the macabre about them but I am quite happy to put these qualms aside if it means steaming bowls of chilli con carne eaten al fresco.