Spent a riotous long bank holiday weekend immersed in the depths of family, surrounded by brothers and cousins and happily regressing to the age of about nine. Every year we descend on my lovely and extremely long-suffering stepmother to camp in her fields, swim in her pool, take over her kitchen and drink her out of house and home whilst reminiscing about past summers spent together and slotting neatly back into the roles we filled all those years ago (in my case the plump, unsporty one-- see below). Usually this, and laughing immoderately over the odd grainy photograph featuring bowl haircuts and flared trousers takes up most of our time, but this year brother #1 (in a series of 3) decided to throw in an Olympic-style decathlon too. Guess who came last and brought home the wooden spoon?
The sun shone for most of the weekend, but the nights were freezing cold, glittering with stars and lit by a big, creamy harvest moon. By the time we all went our separate ways yesterday it really did feel like autumn had arrived.
Hmm. I love autumn. I love the bonfirey, golden-leaved, red-wine-and-apple crumbleness of it all, and I'm looking forward to wearing boots again, and getting back to work (of course I am-- I mean, have you seen my new hero?) But I'm sad about summer ending. I'd just got into the holiday groove, and now the idea of school run, homework and ironing uniforms seems outrageously uncivilised. Which, coming from someone who's just spent the best part of a week sleeping in a tent, is saying something.