Christmas is past and New Year is almost upon us. The fridge no longer loses its contents every time the door is opened. And only the chocolates that nobody wants to eat are left.
The family have headed home, and after a morning getting the house back in order I fancy a light lunch. Blue garlic mushrooms on toast will use up the stilton from the cheese board, and the leftover cream in the fridge.
Dawn prises its way through the gap in my curtain considerably later now. Dusk settles a little earlier. Department stores no longer drip with breezy silks and cotton, instead heavy with the weight of wool. Christmas is cropping up in pubs and restaurants: book your party now.
Summer has been one of extremes. Record breaking temperatures interrupted by dark skies and prolonged periods of pounding rain. Bram Stokers Dracula arriving en masse in gangs of bloodthirsty midge.
A Saturday – central Manchester. Damp hair growing frizzy; sitting in a café surrounded by customers seeking shelter from the barrage of umbrellas. Spying a misty impression of a rainbow, parting clouds lure me home: for something vibrant, something sweet, a nugget of evening summer sunshine.