Autumn?

Is it me or...? No, I know it's me. It's always me but, to put it differently, which is awkward as I haven't exactly put it yet, is it cold? Do I idealise the past to remember that summer holidays were, in the 1960s, largely summery? Or have I simply summerised them? Get lost spell-checker it's a pun. But I'm sure my sister and I spent all of August playing in the garden and rain was a rarity.

I went out to the pub the other night and Mrs M (who wears a minimum of two layers from August to May inclusive) suggested that a short-sleeved shirt was not enough. As I am male and unable to take advice I proceeded out of the door.

At the pub my companions had chosen to sit outdoors and, as the evening wore on, put on the fleeces they had brought with them.

Now I don't really do cold. Which is to say that I know when it is a bit nippy but rarely feel it is unpleasant. Hot - now that's nasty, sticky and saps my strength. Cold is OK. But it was a bit parky that night and I admitted as much to my drinking companions (who agreed about summers past) and on my return (because I'm not so macho I can't admit to a woman that she was right).

This morning the world is still, there is decaying vegetation in the air (and it's not just that the kitchen bin needs emptying although it does) and the garden feels kind of transitional. I think autumn is breaking out earlier. September is one of my favourite months as I rejoice in the departing of hay-fever, sticky nights and flies in the conservatory. Let's not peak too soon world.

Will need to wear thicker T-shirts this week.