Listen, I don’t care if dressing the baby up in his snuggly blue jumper means he’s in a permanent hot sweat. And yes, I do know that there is no need for the heating to be on, and that closing the curtains at 6.30pm doesn’t mean that the nights are drawing in, when it is plain for all to see that the sun is still cracking the flags. I don’t care. I want it to be Autumn.
I have scrubbed for all I’m worth today. I have done myself a damage pulling the wardrobes into the middle room and lemoned my hands pure white. I have got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed and stood on my tippy, tippy toes and scrubbed. Because it is Autumn. Because it is seasonal scrub week and that means the season is supposed to change.
Because Alison said so.
The house is starting to feel kind of scrumptious, but the powers that be, seem to have forgotton to turn off the summer and the schoolgirls around here are sweltering in their blazers, ties and tights, and I keep piling the layers on hopefully, only to find myself peeling them away half an hour later. It isn’t good enough.
Weathermen, please take note.