this is not quite the real october I imagined
It’s warm & wet. Five crows rollick down the middle of Grove Road about twenty feet up, tumbling & mock-fighting. My latest autumn spider sits under the lead in the top righthand window corner, glumly watching her web sag into strings & long hexagons in the rain, the way her mother, grandmother & great grandmother watched in the deep historical times before her. Barnes Common has its quota of wet dogs, dead silver birches bracketed with polypore, & at corners the odd clump of sodden chamomile, petals shuttlecocked back in the rain. A morning like this is good because you can wear your Montane waterproof in anger at last; but after five minutes everything’s such a struggle you might as well be running in a hot tub.
Returning repeatedly to: paras five & six of David Cunningham’s excellent essay Re-Placing the Novel at Ballardian.com. Unable to stop listening to: Ruins of the Realm, James McMurtry. I know who to blame for this.