All of a sudden, the trees are looking autumnal. Yesterday Mr Life, Daughter 1, Son-in-Law 1, Grandson and I went for a walk along the River Tyne in Haddington. The air was chilly but lovely, with that autumnal smell of - well, decay, I suppose, but somehow redolent of childhood games and woodsmoke and new beginnings.
Daughter 2 texted me while we were walking. I wish she could have been with us.
It seems wrong that we're on to a whole new season that my mother will never know. Of course, she had 90 autumns, so there's not a lot to complain about except... that she would have enjoyed the bright leaves and the sunshine (though not the chill in the air) and deary me, life is too short. This is my 63rd autumn and I wonder sometimes (in my cheerful way) how many more I'll see.
And will I live long enough to be able to master properly my current piano piece, an extract from "Swan Lake"? It's not looking like it at the moment. Separate hands, fine. Together... not so much. That rattling noise you hear is Tchaikovsky turning in his grave.