I think autumn is trying to sneak up on us. The last couple of days I’ve worn a jacket for the first time in months and today I gave in and added a jumper. Not that this has stopped me wearing shorts because it hasn’t, but I did have to give in and wear tights with them. I’m just not ready for autumn, I’m in an official state of denial about it all. I mean, it’s August, and August is not an autumnal month. Also there are too many things happening in autumn for it to be upon us just yet .
But the pumpkin doesn’t lie, and it’s getting more orange by the day. I can see it from the dining room window, taunting me, flashing its orange skin amongst the leaves. I haven’t been out to check on it in the last couple of days because it’s rained and thundered, and I have been mostly curled up on the sofa trying to pretend that it’s still warm enough in the house to wear just a vest top (whilst hiding under a quilt). However, I know it’s there.
The strange thing is that I love autumn. It’s my favourite time of year. It means knitwear and the start of the football season (yes, yes, I know it starts tomorrow, but that’s just silly, it never used to start as early as mid-August), and pumpkins! Ones I grew myself and are supposed to taste like roasted chestnuts. And yet, I’m just not ready. I want a little more sunshine, a few more figs from the tree and I’m still holding out hope that our courgette plants will produce a courgette (I’m not sure how last year I drowned in marrows to the extent that I’ve hidden them in the work freezer – ssshhh – and this year not a single courgette has graced my plot). I want to drink just one more glass (ahem, bottle) of rosé, and spend just a few more breakfasts before work sitting outside watching the cats roll around in the dust.
Perhaps if I ignore the pumpkins for long enough they will realise I’m not ready, stop ripening and allow me just a few more weeks of blissful ignorance?