It seems like eight minutes ago it was June. Now it is September, the '60' numberplates are being drizzled on, the temperatures have started to slide down, my flowers have gone to seed, it is dark before the end of Eastenders (and even darker for the end of Peggy, but that's another story), kids wander to school with that gloomy look of those taunted all holiday by the school-wear ads, teachers have the look of the harassed and us clerics put away our Bermuda Cassocks and plow on for Christmas.
CBeebies have arbitarily moved us to Autumn (they have little songs about what season it might be for the little nippers to listen to, and now we hearing the autumn song).
It is about this exact moment that I have to give myself a slap and 'have a word with myself' for fear that if I don't, I will slide down the perilous precipice into seasonal affective disorder. Oh, but it is hard. This morning, it is grey and misty, cool and damp. I seem to be ministering to matters-death more than matters-life. I know I have it in me resist this, but I can't find it this morning.
This morning, I am glum. I am glum, but I will work on it. I have no choice.