almost autumn.


we had a day of autumn here yesterday!


it was most exciting.

not an Entire Day, actually – because it was over by lunchtime, of course, when the sun finally came out.


but enough fruit-falling-feeling to herald a moment of Philip Larkin which we found here. 

And now the leaves suddenly lose strength.
Decaying towers stand still, lurid, lanes-long,
And seen from landing windows, or the length
Of gardens, rubricate afternoons. New strong
Rain-bearing night-winds come: then
Leaves chase warm buses, speckle statued air,
Pile up in corners, fetch out vague broomed men
Through mists at morning.

And no matter where goes down,
The sallow lapsing drift in fields
Or squares behind hoardings, all men hesitate
Separately, always, seeing another year gone –
Frockcoated gentleman, farmer at his gate,
Villein with mattock, soldiers on their shields,
All silent, watching the winter coming on.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAand, quite naturally, a reflective Feeling gives rise to a little Keats:

Ode To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimmed their clammy cell.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

John Keats

and again, this morning, it was a slightly chilly start to the day and rather lovely as a consequence of waking early and spending a few moments just looking out of the window.


before getting down to work.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAwhat’s the weather doing in your part of the world?

we note from the world-of-instagram that the sun is already faint over Berlin (both the metaphorical place that is forever Berlin and there where it really lives with its own trains and subways and skyline).


as we mourn the passing of Mr. Lou Reed who passed through his own autumn and reached the winter of his life too, too s o o n.

headshots, the novels of miss pym and burning sage.


so it’s here.

who-we-are-in-RL has had her Picture Done.


she was Terribly Nervous.

we like it.

we just sent it to someone who Knows Things and he said:

No bad thing, at all. Like it. Strong, centred, ‘don’t even think about it….’

and someone else this morning said:

you remind me of Fiona Shaw with that Celtic fierceness.


we adore Fiona.

who took it?

the talented Joanna Brooks no less.

we helped in doing a Pinterest board as “Inspiration” for both Joanna and for Kate Hollinshead who did our hair and make-up

if you just *clicked* on the link to Kate’s page you might have noticed a familiar picture top left.

did you?

click again.

yes – we are a small close-knit community of creative types over on This Coast.

almost a medieval guild type of arrangement from time to time.

which is delicious.

let’s take a second look.


sophiastuartheadshot72dpithe pearls are a lovely touch – and most surprising with that leather jacket (DKNY, apparently, we had hoped for a vintage something from an Italian mechanic acquaintance but that’ll do – we Adore donna karan).

now do excuse us – we must return – Barbara Pym’s letters are waiting in the room next door.


we never really discovered the Novels of Miss Pym – but when we read her Letters to Philip Larkin we just knew we needed to get to know her better. OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

and just to give you a sensory experience too – teamgloria towers are aromatic with the scent of sage.

this isn’t just a textual blog – you can almost scratch and sniff this one.


not literally, darling.

pack that in.