Autumn is probably my favourite season. Actually, that’s a lie, I quite like an equal number of things about almost every season. But then again, there’s just something kind of exquisite about autumn – it’s as if poetry is in the air.
It’s mostly rainy here when the leaves decide to show us their alternate colours, but drizzle or downpour, the leaves dripping beads of rain water always make the world seem more mysterious somehow. As if it’s on a secret precipice of something. So much more quietly exciting.
It makes me feel weirdly nostalgic for books, and Harry Potter in particular, which makes no sense, because when I first read the Harry Potter series I was living in Thailand, and there is no autumn there.
But there is something storybookish about autumn – about the leaves scuttling underfoot, the lanes snaking under orange bowers. Maybe it’s the fact that I always read about autumn in books, that now I’m actually in it I feel the need to romanticise it.