Yet it is indeed autumn

A few days ago, I wrote here that the atmosphere had changed. I was delighted.

I'd pulled out my sweaters again. My ankle boots. The brown ones, the khaki ones, the suede ones. I'd also taken out Rouge Noir with the rather peculiar satisfaction of someone who feels that summer has lasted long enough. In short, in my mind, autumn had officially begun.

Yesterday morning, I woke up to summer. It was twenty-seven degrees during the day. I don't know what happened in the meantime.

Apparently, it was an influx of warm subtropical…

So here I am with my articles on fallen leaves, my thoughts on wool and my ankle boots while outside, people are still looking for a terrace in Birkenstocks.

I had even started thinking about autumn fabrics. Until I veered off onto an article about the personality of fabrics. Velvet. Flannel. Leather. Excellent idea.

So there I was, sweating in my crumpled linen.

I had planned a meal with pumpkin, creamed mushrooms, and bacon bits. In the end, I would have been better off getting a melon.

But I refused.

To split the difference, which would have been more appropriate than melon, I ended up getting beefsteak tomatoes. Again.

I also swapped my enormous faux-fur hat, much too big for my head (but which I love that way), for a baseball cap. You have to know when to admit defeat. I was far too enthusiastic at the time.

In the morning, I wanted wool and ankle boots. By noon, I regretted all my choices.

Ultimately, nobody knows how to dress in September.

Psychologically, it's already October and it's too late to recover. Red Black will always be Red Black.

The weather can do what it wants. Yet it is indeed autumn.

Sixtine