I have never understood the fascination with autumn, or fall, whatever you want to call the time between summer and winter (which rots but that's another rant).
Autumn is awful, a dreadful season, really. I mean, think about it. Everything is falling apart, pardon the pun.
The leaves are drying up and dropping from the trees. Your carefully tended vegetable and flower garden? Toast. Those ten pounds you lost with all that great weather exercise? Surprise, they are going paste themselves right back on your waistline. Worse, now you will be wearing layers -- meaning that you will look rounder and rounder as you pile on bulky sweaters.
And let's not talk about how we are going to spend the next five months with our shoulders permanently hunched around our ears in response to the increasingly colder weather.
I've got friends who love this time of year, pointing out how great it is to look for pumpkins or the energizing feeling of the cooler, autumnal air. The words "refreshing" and "crisp" are part of their lexicon. And I'm happy for you. One of those friends lives in Alaska and just adores winter. But then Richard is a musician, brilliant and completely nuts.
Me, however? I think autumn is like Sunday nights when you are killing those last few weekend hours before the grind of work is about to clobber you with a major wallop.
Fall means "Winter is Coming," and if you are a Game of Thrones fan, you know what that means.
Amen, and pass the vacation brochures.