Autumn is Agent Triple P's favourite season by a long way.
Dreary winter, with its light-free mornings and evenings, is largely unbearable in England; not for us the proper winter of Eastern Canada or Scandinavia just endless grey days of lashing rain and artifical light.
Dreary winter, with its light-free mornings and evenings, is largely unbearable in England; not for us the proper winter of Eastern Canada or Scandinavia just endless grey days of lashing rain and artifical light.
Spring should be a time of promise and anticipation but often the weather disappoints and we find the undeniable rising in our sap tends to lead to ill-considered dalliances: driven by hormonal responses not sense.
Summer offers the greatest potential for disappointing weather and, in reality, hot weather when commuting to London is not pleasant.
So it is Autumn which we enjoy the most. It is not the sultry Indian Summer Autumn of Keats which engages us, however. We have always thought that his Ode to Autumn is really an ode to harvest time, that slightly blousy, drowsy overblown period that can sometimes arise in mid-September. His poem is full of heady, over-ripe imagery and does not, in fact, in it's late summer way, catch the essence of Autumn.
For me the first whiff of Autumns was in the air today when Triple P left his office at lunchtime for an enjoyable lunch in Westminster with a government contact. Although the sun was out, on the shady side of the street the air had an undeniable chill for the first time.
The most perfect Autumn days are those when it is cold and crispy but the sun is shining. A good day for a walk with a nice young lady and cold enough that you both need to retire to a warm fire in the late afternoon with a bottle of a Southern Rhone...
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