The season of writing
As London wraps itself in autumn grey, I'm back at my desk in the corner, tapping away at a mechanical keyboard by the glow of an upward-pointed anglepoised lamp.
Outside: dinge, drizzle, perhaps a gale. Inside: a favourite cardigan and the consequential satisfaction of lower gas bills.
There's something about putting the clocks back that feels like permission to settle in. The walk to the cafe comes with sodden leaves to kick and to contemplate.
I've always watched the seasons change, but the slow death that is autumn remains the most beautiful.
Spring and summer are for going out, keeping up, being busy. Autumn and winter are for actually doing things. Proper, considered, slow doing.
Autumn is the season of working from home. Autumn is the season for writing.