Well now I have polished the child, packed him off to school, spick and span, wiped away the dust of the Summer from every surface in the house, mowed the lawn into Autumnal oblivion and of course, bought myself a new pencil case and plucked my chin hair because I am a woman of a certain age and it seems, a rather becoming beard goes with the territory – because – oh yey – a new season is upon us and I am sooo excited to find myself back in my lovely term-time routine I have abandoned my late-night bath in favour of the bliss of blogging…
It has been the oddest of Summers. A summer I think of discontent. Long, sunny days marred by a kind of anxiety I have not known before. There was an incident with an ambulance when it seemed as though my tummy was falling out. An actual falling out with someone after the ambulance crisis, we seemingly cannot fix. Lazy, but lovely days with our boys. Sadness enveloping our whole district because somebody else’s boy has been lost on the marshland and has not been found. A pair of pigeons who nested for weeks on end in the garden only to leave their little baby pigeons after they had been savaged. A yearning for the red wine I have given up drinking with Ste, despite feeling all the better for it and so proud of him because he is a changed man: the strain of a life spent being best mates with beer, no longer burrowing a frown upon his forehead.
Not all Summers are blessed. And perhaps they are not meant to be. Some seasons call for change and we do ourselves an injustice if we do not absorb their lessons. If we do not see who we are becoming and and adjust the course of our journey to once again embrace gratitude instead of resentment.
I am so ready…
I am ready for stacks of cosy mysteries and cups of cocoa in knitted jackets. For the predictable pattern of Autumn days. For my yellow quilt to be pulled over flannel sheets and my dressing gown to be warmed on the radiator for wrapping up snuggly in after cinnamon baths. I am ready for dark at five o’clock and rich gravy casseroles simmering on the stove. For my boy coming home with ice cold cheeks and for the cups of tea we will share in the afternoon candlelight. I am ready for pumpkins twinkling on windowsills and the mad people who put their Christmas trees up in the middle of November. For pink cashmere socks and woolly hats with furry pom-poms.
I am ready for blankets slung over the arms of every chair in the house. For dried twigs, berries and bowls full of conkers. For proper puddings with warm custard and proper breakfast with hearts swirled in jam. I am ready for snuggling up in bed and warm legs on which to toast my always frozen feet. For secret hidey-holes stuffed full of Christmas presents, leaf-kicking along the canal, and icy glasses full of aromatic Seedlip. For eucalyptus showers and towels still hot from the dryer. For thermal nighties and slipper socks, period drama on a Sunday evening and black and white movies on duvet days.
I am ready for warm cheddar scones and salty french butter. For Saturday afternoon cinema dates and the hustle and bustle of the shops in December. For thick tights and woolly jumpers, scarves wrapped in snuggly funnels around my neck and my much loved red leather gloves. For rainy days and mornings spent sweeping leaves. For goose-pimples when I throw the windows open first thing in the morning and the sweet sigh of relief when I post myself back between sheets warmed by a hot water bottle late at night. For cinnamon toast and bowls full of hot chocolate. Croissants stuffed with bacon and fairy lights everywhere.
I am ready for it all. For a new season and the clean sweep, and velvet-ribbon wrapped promise, Autumn always brings. I do hope you will join me. It is such an honour to be entering my fifteenth year here at Brocantehome. Such a blessing to know that as always, you are here too.