Autumn is creeping in around the garden. A few years ago I wrote about how it arrives later in cities, and it was odd, last week, to find myself retracing the steps that informed the seasonal wanderlust that begins that piece. Our trees are more singular here, in that they are often planted separately from one another. The rusting carpet that rolls up against the roads in the countryside - Somerset, in this case - stays upright in London. There’s a tree across the road from the house that turns red at the bottom, yellow in the middle and green at the top; if you drew it that way, my Mum commented, you’d never believe it was real.

But the change is knocking at the back door now. The little beech tree I carried home on the Tube in a heatwave when the baby was small (the baby was carried, too) has turned gold, the acer opposite it brick-red. The nasturtiums will never flower - I sowed them far too late - but have leaves as big as my palm. I’ll make pesto with them at some point. The bulbs wait by the back door, as they always do. Inside, I layer up jumpers and fiddle at the thermostat. Suddenly, everyone is in a coat.

Earlier this week I wrote about how everything and nothing seems to be changing at the moment but over the past few days I have felt a shift, a clunk of recognition of a self I didn’t realise had been in dormancy. It’s fun to have her back.

Other good things this week:...