The football is over and it’s one of those days where I don’t know if you’re dead or alive. I could ask you but you probably wouldn't be sure of the answer either. I want to reach you but I don't have to dig that deep to understand that I'm just making it about me.

Something I've noticed, apart from the ongoing stalling of sunshine and warmth, is more bits and pieces getting lost. There's a glut of small coats and tiny socks, hanging from wrought iron fences. Little hauntings waiting to be repossessed.

Last summer was different but I'm still listening to the same five songs. I continue to collect recipes and fail to make any of them. I'm already trying to neaten this up before it's done.

Comparison is the thief of joy, apparently. The jury's out on metaphor.