I'm lying on the window seat in the Norfolk home, looking out at the garden. The electric pink dahlias and salmon coloured gladioli provide bursts of colour in a garden that is otherwise beginning to fade. The green is not as vivid as it was just a few weekends ago, the lavender bushes are looking more silvery, and I can see the translucent purple of the autumn crocuses unfolding under the lilac tree. The morning sun is slanting into the room I'm in, but my toes are cold for the first time in months.
On the train last night, the moon low and yellow across the darkened fields we were speeding past, I read the following:
'People say that autumn is bittersweet and melancholic - the passing of another year into winter - but I think the season is more about new beginnings. It's about change, possibility, promise.' (from La Vie Parisienne by Jane McCulloch)
How apt, I thought. It summed up entirely how I am feeling at the moment. This sentiment also explains why, emerging from the bright warmth of the carriage to the vast, inky, Norfolk sky and drizzle spattered car park, I wasn't filled with dread at the thought of cold nights and dark mornings, but rather felt a vague, deep thrill.
I am off to raid the charity shops and scour the auction, feeling hopeful for some good finds.
A possibility-filled Friday...