Autumn

Autumn, according to Keats, is 'the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness'... Or at least it was in 1819. To people everywhere now (alas, despite the global warming fears of both the twentieth and twenty first centuries, Autumn has deigned itself not to change and carries on as normal as ever) Autumn represents fears of 'leaves on the line', slipping over in Louboutins due to soggy pavements and rain. Lots and lots of rain.

Autumn does however remain my favourite season. As soon as I get off of the train and start to walk the 1.1 miles to University, I see conkers. I walk through a leafy lane (something so countryside, it sticks out in the grey hues of London) and everywhere I see those avocado green porcupine shells that have spent months holding little chocolate toned spheres. For months and months these tiny seasonal accessories have been being crafted (without any help from sweatshops) and how do they end up? In a mud pool, or being smashed to pieces by children in playgrounds everywhere who are lucky enough to attend non politically correct schools. I was a child lucky enough to attend one of these schools (the 90's were much more liberal) and as a result, I automatically associate Autumn with nostalgic memories of cheering people on, and pulling disapproving faces when one of the offending conkers split and debris would fly.

Autumn means a new start; New pencils that need sharpening, a new diary that needs drawing over, hot chocolate, a good reason to shop for woolly (and preferably found in the mens section) socks and woolly hats, fighting with gloves to send a text, and holding hands. I love to hold hands in Autumn, partially because I'm a romantic, and I like nothing more than wrapping up and snuggling up to my Man (who won't see the romanticism but has been dragged along and promised Starbucks) and partially because I'm particularly clumsy and need someone a bit bigger than me to hold me up, and still love me for my Bambi feet. I love the freshness of the air, the pink cheeks, the happy smiles and that never far feeling that The Season To Be Jolly is one step closer...

Still, as much as I love it, I do observe that tomorrow it will almost certainly be only just breaking dawn as I wake up, and I'll groan because it's still only September, and I also know I'll dare myself to get out from underneath the 13.5 tog quilt that stays on all year round, whilst telling myself I'll never regain this position of warmness ever aga... Oh hell, who am I kidding? I'll love it really, Glove wrestling and all.

Books.

Books.
It seems with every passing year, there is a new way to read a book; but is a book still a book if you can't pick it up, turn the page, break the spine, fold the top of the page over, spill nail varnish over it or settle down in bed and fall asleep (glasses on, of course) whilst reading it?

Yesterday, I went to print something off at the local library, where I was told I could either buy a day pass or join for free. At first, I was irritated. Why would I want to join a library?I just wanted to print something off and be on with my day! Then I realised that clearly I was behaving too cosmpolitan. 8 year old me used to love the library, and often refused to leave. The library was where Roald Dahl lived, and where I first convinced my Mother that Harry Potter was not a satanic book. So I joined, received a much prettier card than I had when I was 8 (with a scenic shot of Newlands Corner on it, nonetheless) and went up the stairs... to sit at a computer.
Although that's what I had intended to do in the first place, it felt wrong. Like I had ignored my life-long partner for some new toy boy on the scene. So I went for a walk. I love the smell of books, the feel of them. Books to me are like people; some I get on with straight away (Jilly Cooper's 'Riders'), some I have to meet a few times before really liking them (Antony Burgess's 'A Clockwork Orange'), some I just don't like (John Milton's 'A Paradise Lost') and the One. The thing every girl searches for, the one that'll never leave her and always love her, even if she asks the same questions every time she sees them (George Orwell's '1984').

Today, I am going to buy a new book; granted I already have a small library which was recently increased in size with encouragement from an English Literature degree booklist, but these books are like teachers; forced upon me whether I like them or not. A new book.
A new book a day keeps the doctor away.
But it really doesn't help your vision.

Commuting

This week I have begun to commute. This is one of the most stressful, most busy, yet most beautiful forms of travel; there are people everywhere. Much like walking in a Toulouse-Lautrec poster, Clapham Junction is full of people. Thin people. Fat people. Ugly people. Old people. Rich people. The beauty of it is hidden in it's anonymity.
In a world where everybody knows everything about everyone else, commuting is oddly lonely, yet full of togetherness. I find myself wondering where people are getting off, where are they going to, who will they talk to today? Yet the general public appear as if they cannot stand to be alone; as soon as you sit down (or stand and look tall - impressive with my personal stature) as if by some James Cameron 'Avatar' style telepathic link, everyone around you will reach for a Blackberry or an iPhone, headphones or a newspaper. We can't stand to be singular, to have those 9 minutes for Clapham Junction to Barnes People Free; forgetting anything outside this metal carriage exists. Sure, the odd person leans back, closes their eyes, but all the while, their eyes move under their lids, fully aware they're going against the expected behaviour and praying no-one's looking.
It's the walking to platforms that's so interesting. Everyone walks so fast. You just know that even if they have 20 minutes before their train is due, they'll rush. It's like a tiny olympic race to Platform 9 to catch the 10:02; you walk fast, you look at no-one, and you keep to the left; like some untaught regime the masses follow. You learn to fit, and you learn to fit fast. Smiling is a no-no, you ignore everyone, even if they look like they need a cup of tea and a chat, simply because right then, it's more important to get in front of the 6'2 Rugby-Player-framed-suited-and-booted-briefcase-clutching-simultaneously-texting-man that is always within reach of your studded cowboy booted steps...