I don't care if I'm the only one rejoicing in the fact that the recent sweaty 30 degree highs have finally fucked off, hopefully clearing our streets of endless displays of arsecheeks hanging out of hotpants (just because Rihanna does it doesn't mean you should ladies) and mahogany tinted, bleach blonde identikit girls schlepping round town. It's like fucking Hollyoaks round here these days. Nauseating.
So yeah. I wake to a text from a friend saying that it's bastard cold and he bets I'm happy about that. I am and I say YES. This is the time of year that gets me happy. I love it when the wind turns properly cold and you can smell autumn in the air. And the trees get all artistically naked and the clothes get ace. And I can wear my fake fur coats. And awful chavvy young lads stop getting their tops off.
I can do things without sweating after five minutes. I can wear thick tights and heavy boots. My new mittens with the teddy bear ears (don't judge me). I can sleep better at night and catch early frosts. It's going to be Halloween and Bonfire Night, and the run up to Christmas, which I love.
People look better, pale skin is in and everything's just cosy and lovely.
I'm scaring myself slightly with this positive blog post so will keep it short.