When I Spied The Autumn

I'm missing and craving the autumn. I've tasted it 8 times in a row, not counting the other travel times while still in Malaysia. 5 straight autumns at the moment, in Melbourne, Australia and 3 in London. I hope to be back in Europe next month finally.

Though my favourite time in London is always a January dusk when on returning from the theatre, the films or a glass of wine, you walk along the pavements, feeling all's well with the world.

You catch your friends, wave goodbye, say hello...and the cold air brushes engagingly against your cheeks and the night lights twinkle just for you... the newspaper vendor's closing up and people everywhere are laughing and smiling.

Then my palms neatly snuggled in leather gloves and tucked into coat pockets, I too, stroll along onward, wanting to laugh and sing...almost wanting to dance.

I'll be back to the funnies in a day or 2. I lost the rhythm & flow of comedy after my internet connection broke down. I lost the inspiration for Love Potion No.2 completely. Now I have to get it back.

These are scrapes of a journal I wrote in London last year when the first signs of autumn arrived. Here I share it with you all.



Yesterday, I Spied On The Autumn

by Susan Abraham

It was evening time and just gone six. On slipping out of a cafe that spilt onto Cromwell Road, I drew my cardigan closer to me. It heralded a vain attempt to scare away the odd shiver. Not convinced by the subtle sun rays on its last leg of a doubtful summer this rainy September, I always carried a sweater.

Now on seeing it had vanished, I searched in vain for my glorious summer light. For months, it had thrilled my dusks like the glimmer of festive bulbs.

Instead, it lay burrowed deep in the ocean bed of a sunset bedroom. Tearful and alone, it engaged in its swift bag-pack to flee the European continent like a race car. Hide and Run. Hide and Run. Such has always been the style of a farewell season.

The playful darkness knowing and impish, had already slipped its welcome onto me like a cold flapping hat. Did I want to cover my eyes and feel myself stumble in the dark? Just in case, you see... It wasn't very kind at all. It had sprung from behind and shouted boo.

And it was then for the first time this month that I glimpsed the owner of this new tip-toeing shadow. The mistress of the coming season, the autumn herself rustled up her skirts...sending up a flurry of blowsy threads in russets and reds...grapes, oranges and browns. All around me, a shower of leaves wore wings, blew and danced, and fell in circles like fairy rings.

Along the way, they paused to give my hair and shoulders a tender brush.

"Come and play," , they whispered in my ear like the whistle of a chilly wind. "We carry on our backs...ice and not fire. Ice to splice and prise...ice like dice...and ice so nice..."

I felt like a solitary bride soaking up the confetti.
True to their words, the temperature sunk and I froze slightly.

Then I saw the autumn poised and as regal as any madam could be, stand outside London's gate with her oversized luggage, biding her time to ring the doorbell. Watching and waiting. Watching and waiting.

Perhaps she would go away again...give the sulky sun its chance to sing Auld Lang Syne and return tomorrow. Next week, she'd make sure she got all the warmest blankets out, turned up the heaters, and poured us each a generous glass of port. For now, she could be patient. And so I spied and spied.