Why is it that everyone else always seems appropriately dressed, no matter how mercurial the weather may be? I check the reports too but I'm constantly wearing rainproofs in the sun and woollens in the wet.
October creates new opportunities for thinking about clothes. You become aware of the way that fabrics feel, of the nap and pile and surface of things.
I wore all black and blue. But then Ginny sent me a photo of Mary wearing all red. All different shades of red, crimson, rust and dusty pink, what a vision, smeared lipstick and apples and Virginia Woolf's first memory.
On an unsure Friday night, we walked home after two and a half pints at The Fox through quick black streets.
Once back in the stove-warmed flat, we danced to Bob Dylan as the vegetables cooked. I can't remember which song. It must have been 'A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall'. And at the end of wakefulness, we listened to 'See the Sky About to Rain' by Neil Young. Earlier, Jamie played Tina Turner's cover of 'I Can't Stand the Rain'. In the morning, we listened to Ann Peebles' original.
On Thursday, eight of us went to Wigmore Hall to listen to Beethoven string quartets. But we sat in front of a heavy breather. From what I could tell he certainly seemed to be enjoying the music. It was unnervingly distracting.
Beethoven what a punk. Malevich what a punk. The Malevich show at Tate Modern, along with the Duchamp show at Centre Pompidou, one of the best mainstream exhibitions I've seen in ages.
Inside Kasimir Malevich's red square is a delicious possibility.
At John Lewis Food Hall, the Christmas things are already up, not even the middle of October. It's like a deliberate attempt to put an end to specialness. Surely Christmas candy at this time of year merely tastes sickly.
I made a bad joke to the sweet clerk about whether I should wish her a merry Christmas.
Autumn. Is it just me or is it much more satisfying to watch things die rather than bloom?
And yet there are all sorts of cycles. This week, my sister Jenny is due.
The pink tip of Emma's nose from her sweet, woozy cold. The flush on Bryony's freckled cheek as she contemplates another year.
Is red the colour for colder months? In summer, I listen to the blues.
Barges and bonfires and wood burning stoves. And big beaten up wooden tables on which friends sit spilling drinks in pubs on long streets in old cities on a small island. I always wanted to come to England and now I live here. Autumn and you think about such things. And I remember when I didn't live here, when I was a west coast idler, looking again and again at a picture in a music magazine of a bunch of kids sat at a long table in a traditional pub. And the photo was taken so that you could see them falling on each other, floppy hair and floppy sweaters, but also you could see under the table, a tangle of trainers and jeans. Those casually crossed legs in the dirty scent of hops and stale smoke meant to me the possibility of unwinding in a different way, something colder and thus with more possibility for warming.
Jamie said, look there are two Jesuses at our table. I said that one wins, because of his empathetic eyes and the way the curls in his long hair flipped coyly, Jesus-like.
From a noisy pub called The Fox on an unsure Friday night, we walked home after two and a half pints through quick black streets under handsome trees timidly undressing.
What better reason to go home than bread, butter, some greens, some whisky. And music, music, the way strummed strings vibrate through a colder air, you sound both more comforting and more forlorn.