On Wednesday, I found myself driving out past the custard maple, to find her in full Birds made with full-fat milk glory.
Now the visitors have left, the forest has lit up with autumnal splendour. The beasts have grown new coats. Mud is back in fashion.
With Andras Schiff rattling out Book I in the old Decca recording as a background, I washed a few soapy bowls this morning entirely by touch, my eyes transfixed by a jay raiding for apple scraps in the garden.
I added an extra layer for my walk yesterday, to the scarf that's been back on duty for a month.
I adopted a pet rock from Devon last week. On the window sill, it suddenly looks like a shark.
