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August 16, 2007
It is raining, a determined, solid rain, washing down the window.

It feels like autumn already, the air more chilly after the fleeting summer of the last two weeks.

Will the leaves start turning colour soon, as confused by these fluctuations in the seasons as my body and moods?

I like autumn, the red-golds of the trees and the rich brown shine of freshly fallen conkers.

It is a time for eating apples and writing poems: a time to wrap up a little in fleeces and jumpers of snuggly fabrics, but not yet time for the swaddled layers of winter.