Summer is a tough act to follow. Whilst spring is synonymous with growth and vitality, autumn is more immediately associated with the onset of cold and decay; we confront the chilly mornings with protest and procrastination as we pang for the balmy evenings of yesterday.
Avocado “power” shakes are unceremoniously surpassed by full fat croissants; even a fry up seems plausible, now. The Pimms is stowed, relegated by the velvet embrace of chocolate and Merlot. Thermal underwear is a genuine possibility.
And as hibernation beckons us forthwith we are sustained by a feast of “new season” television, Masterchef et al. dishing up their familiar recipe for couch confinement. Why would you even want to go outside? Answer; Christmas shopping. In between watching C-list celebs prance about on ice we are thrust into a war of attrition, a barrage of propaganda designed to loosen our grip on festive frugality. In no time at all we’ll be nibbling mince pies.
Herein lies the magic of autumn, replete with seasonal distractions. Halloween, for example, gives us a chance to gut pumpkins and practice neighbourly extortion, shortly followed by Guy Fawkes Night, the annual celebration of medieval terrorism. What could be more distracting than a burning effigy and some mulled wine?
Finally, a new sporting calendar is in full swing, renewing our love for all things athletic. Such is autumn, like the third leg of a sprint relay, a season that runs some hard yards with grace and modesty. Passing the baton is never easy, but medal contention in the Battle of the Seasons is all but guaranteed.