Lemon Yellow, Forest Green, Sky Blue, Red-Violet, Burnt Sienna

I'm sitting in a hard chair, at a keyboard, typing away on subjects that I know too little about-metanarratives, identity, tribalism and visual language. The weather is warm outside but autumn is definitely on its way, there is the smell of cooler wind and the rustle of leathery dried leaves on branches. The sunlight is quickly moving south on the horizon. These are, perhaps, the Northern Hemisphere's sure signs of seasonal change. In England, autumn means the spiders are out spinning webs and windows and doorways and gardens are full of gauzy silk, threaded taut or sprung from their moorings, waiting for lazy flies and dying wasps to stumble in. The sloe berries on the blackthorn bushes up the street have the beginnings of a dusky bloom - I'll pick them in a few weeks when it's a bit colder - there's nothing like a glass of sloe gin on ice, during the winter holiday season. Autumn here means apples and cider from Kent and Somerset. Autumn here means inexplicable rituals like Bonfire Night in Lewes. Autumn means the last Bank Holiday Monday for a long, long time, and rich, brown and smooth conkers. Autumn for me, personally, means an unidentifiable melancholy that lasts until the end of October. Autumn in the UK means wet washing indoors and woolen sweaters and leather jackets. Autumn is an open gate to the new year and a closed gate to feeling young.

Five months ago I wished away the summer. My wish is coming true.