Warmth

Little brown leaves on the pavement outside the office, but only in patches. The sort of air that makes your skin feel all-over cold, but you don't feel cold. A short night's sleep. Darker outside than you remember for the morning. A strange clarity of mind and vision.

If things keep on like this, I'll start imagining some radiant, crisp autumn.

London, this time, was marvellous. Nearly two whole weeks there, packed with things to do, but nothing was rushed. The Prom at the Royal Albert Hall held electrifying music, played slightly slower than the CD, and an interval that glowed with Victorian warmth and a wonderful friend. Then he was gone with his other half for a few days. The house was very empty but full of the rich, slight sadness when you miss people.

When they got back, the world shifted, London became cushioned again but absolutely not any worse for that. The cats moved around the house more, there were little warm social calls to make, there was a wonderful 10-minute stretch of morning at a market by a cathedral. Warmth above the table over dinner, breakfast, lunch. Warmth on the Bakerloo line. Warmth in a cold mojito. Warmth in a cushioned space around which floated a vanishing room. Warmth, even, in the morning alarm bleeps.

It can't last forever, though. Really, it can't. There's a reason these times are so special. They are unusual. And until the usual next dose of the unusual in November, I suppose I'll find my warmth in bed, in the slow turn to autumn... and hopefully in a few other things too.