The diary of almost everything

Every year, somewhere towards the end of August, I start behaving as though autumn has officially been announced.

It hasn’t, although meteorologically it is about to. September starts tomorrow, which means I can at least claim some official support for my behaviour. I wouldn’t object to a beautiful Indian summer, obviously, but I’ve already packed away most of my summer clothes, so anything above twenty-five degrees would now be administratively inconvenient.

The evenings are getting darker, the mornings have lost that bright six-o’clock enthusiasm they had in June, and this Sunday morning I’m lying in bed with the curtains open, watching the rain while my cats have settled beside me.
And I love it.

I should probably say that I’m not one of those people who spends July complaining about the heat and announcing that they can’t wait for autumn. I love spring and summer. I love being outside, long evenings, terraces, dresses, sunshine and the general improvement in everyone’s personality once there’s a bit of light in the sky.

It probably also helps that I work in education and therefore have the enormous luxury of an actual summer holiday. I am fully aware that while I’ve spent several weeks forgetting what day it is, other people have simply continued going to work and occasionally wondered why everyone else seems to be drinking rosé at three in the afternoon. One of my friends is only just about to leave for her summer holiday, so my declaration that summer is now finished is both premature and personally offensive to her.

But tomorrow I go back to work properly, and once that happens I no longer need thirty degrees and blazing sunshine. As far as I’m concerned, the weather can now begin a controlled transition towards autumn.

Apparently I have decided that the seasons should coordinate themselves with my work schedule.

I’ve already done my part. This week I brought down my autumn and winter clothes and packed away the things I genuinely won’t wear again this year. This is unusually organised behaviour for me, particularly because I normally postpone this operation until somewhere around November, when finding a jumper has become less of a wardrobe decision and more of an emergency.

I even sorted things out while I was doing it. There is now a Vinted pile, a pile that can simply leave my life without further discussion and, inevitably, a small group of clothes I’ve owned for five years, haven’t worn for four and still can’t quite get rid of because technically they look nice.

I’ve also seen a watch I want, so I’ve introduced a new financial policy under which I’m not allowed to buy it until I’ve sold some clothes.

This is an excellent system and I have enormous confidence in it right up until the watch is nearly sold out.

The only problem with moving into autumn before autumn has actually arrived is getting dressed.

At eight in the morning, the sky is grey, the pavement is wet and sixteen degrees feels like a perfectly reasonable invitation to wear trousers and a jumper. By two in the afternoon it’s twenty-one degrees, the sun has reappeared and I’m walking around wondering why I dressed for October.

This happens every year, in both directions. The first mildly sunny day in March has me mentally retiring my winter coat, only for me to discover at six in the evening that eight degrees is still, inconveniently, eight degrees.

People always tell you the answer is layers.

Layers are apparently the answer to every transitional-weather problem, although nobody ever mentions that this means spending half the day carrying your outfit around with you.

Still, I like this part of the year. I like putting the little lamps on again in the evening and realising that a candle no longer looks completely ridiculous. I like a rainy Sunday when I’m inside and have nowhere urgent to be, which is an important distinction because rain becomes considerably less charming when you’re standing in it at 7:15 on a Monday morning.

And perhaps that’s what I like most about September. It feels like things start again.
Summer holidays are wonderful, but after six weeks my routines have dissolved almost completely. I eat when I’m hungry, decide what I’m doing based on the weather and spend money with the confidence of someone who apparently believes August exists outside the normal banking system. Even if I don’t go away, somehow summer costs money.

So there is a small part of me that is genuinely looking forward to Monday. Work, structure, meal planning, normal spending and knowing roughly what I’m supposed to be doing on a Wednesday.

Obviously, I’ve also started making completely unrealistic plans for the new school year.

Every holiday I become convinced that this time I’m going to completely reinvent my mornings. I’ll get up at five, have a leisurely breakfast, play with the cats, get ready without rushing and perhaps even lay out five days’ worth of clothes in advance. While I’m still on holiday, this sounds like the morning routine of an exceptionally well-adjusted woman.

Then work starts and, usually within about twenty-four hours, I remember that I know this woman very well and have absolutely no intention of becoming her.

I’ve finally started to accept that perhaps I don’t need to. A routine is allowed to involve getting up at a normal time, feeding the cats, finding something to wear and leaving the house without first completing a ninety-minute wellness programme.

Besides, after six weeks off, I actually want to go back. I would happily accept another three months of holiday if somebody offered them, because I’m not completely insane, but I’m also ready for the part where life gets a bit of shape again.

Friday night I went for a beautiful fine-dining dinner with a friend. It was partly to celebrate her birthday and partly, as I explained, to hold a small mourning ceremony for the end of the summer holiday. I see no reason why grief can’t come with several courses and matching drinks.

Today I have one last Sunday stretching out in front of me. It’s raining, the cats are warm beside me and I may go to Delft later and find a piece of apple pie, which feels like a sufficiently autumnal activity without requiring me to officially declare the season changed.

Tomorrow the alarm goes off and the school year begins.
Until then, I’m keeping the curtains open, watching the rain and enjoying the final few hours in which I don’t need to know what day it is.

Although I have already put the summer clothes away.

So September had better behave itself.

-Sophie Quinn