The day after Guy Fawkes you expect full November, damp with a sulphur edge. But this morning is clear & sunny & the water has frozen in the pots on the balcony. I write that its surface is “buckled & sparred”. I put on my Superdry coat. I redeem the old cat’s ashes from the vet’s on White Hart Lane. For a second–ambushed by some passing notion not of mine but of the future’s, a memory of something that will never happen–I imagine falling over a curb & dropping him. That wouldn’t do. Pensionable is bad enough: wearing the coat of an adolescent is bad enough: having a broken hip & being covered in addition with the remains of your pet would be irretrievably uncool even in East Sheen. The leaves of the street trees have gone from green to an urban dazzle of ochre, tan & purple in what seems like a single night.