Five reasons this season should be named Fr-autumn
Many people consider autumn their favourite season. I can understand why; long weekend walks kicking through crisp leaves, the smell of burning logs, clear skies and stunning woodland colours. But let me remind you how the season is becoming fraught with tension…
We are required to endure the mandatory pumpkin-based products every café, restaurant and shop is intent on punting. Pumpkin scones, tarts, tortellini and even pumpkin-infused tea. We’re under pressure to incorporate pumpkin into packed lunches and Sunday roasts. And what about the seeds? The shame of throwing them into the bin when they’re surely a must-have addition to any breakfast cereal. And, finally, when we’ve grown tired of the David-Walliams’-face-carved-pumpkin, we’re persuaded to fashion it into something useful - an organic cycle helmet perhaps?
We’ve only just rammed our (unused) bikini back in the bottom drawer and hauled out last winter’s jumper when the clocks fall back and suddenly we’re plunged into darkness until next year. Then there’s the challenge that clock-changing has on young children, who completely miss the point of that precious extra hour in bed.
Colleagues at work think it’s absolutely acceptable to secrete plastic spiders in the cloakroom, drop maggots into mugs of coffee or attend the weekly staff meeting in Frankenstein’s mask. And believe me, it’s really not that hilarious to reach into the office fridge for a carton of milk and pull out a severed arm.
Just when we’re settling down to catch the latest BBC drama - or if we’re feeling creative and have got back to that novel #am writing - every five minutes is punctuated with an explosive bang! from outside. Fireworks were always a bit of a pointer to the 5th November. Now it’s not unusual to be interrupted by a firework whizz or bang any time between the schools going back and New Year’s Eve.
Embarking on the weekly tour of the supermarket requires negotiation around the Twin Towers of Christmas before even reaching an aisle. The dual stacks of chocolate tubs teeter precariously beside the trolleys - a sure sign that Christmas is a mere twelve weeks away. And when pubs or restaurants suggest in September to ‘book now or you’ll be disappointed’. Really - I won’t be.