The life of Di
A monthly column by Di Wade, the author of ‘A Year In Verse’
SHRINKING DAYS, SOCKS AND SHOES
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utumn says many things to me, starting with shrinking days, socks and shoes (instead of strappy sandals), books, bonfires, and hibernation. Then I might think Green Drive, (aflame with red, orange, and gold), pumpkin lanterns, treacle toffee, Bake-off, Strictly, and the illuminations. So all in all, I’ve always rather liked autumn, even if it DOES tend to signal the end of those lovely long, light nights, and the final gallop down to Christmas, with its betokening of the end of another year. At the time of writing however, it’s still very much summer, (you can tell from the fact it’s dark AFTER four o’clock, and only Arctic SOME of the time), so I’m loath quite yet to start thinking about the season of hotpots, thermal undies, and having to remind myself how the heating works again. Not that summer has been all sweetness and light. For large parts indeed it’s been all dispiriting news, dodgy workmen, and a shedload of computer problems: I’ve heard it suggested that gremlins are wont to get into one’s wardrobe and alter the labels on all one’s clothes. Shouldn’t be at all surprised. However, I’d go one step further and say they get everywhere, and there wreak havoc untold including moving things
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around, (to the most unhelpful extent possible), getting into stuff one desperately needs, and wrecking it, (at the most inopportune time), having your TV record the Sewer Men when you actually wanted the new Sean Bean, and much much more. I also suspect one of them removed the teabag from my mug this morning as I found I’d only boiling water when I came to take it out myself. However, this MIGHT have had something to do with my having been up half the night watching the Olympics: It’s always possible. Even before my night-time roofraisings in the cause of swimmers, divers, mountain-bikers, triathletes, and everyone but the kitchen sinkrelated really, sport had begun turning summer from a mere term into a triumph. I was delighted by the return of Wimbledon, and once that was done, (the strawberries and cream all devoured, and the obligatory wry speculation as to our next SW19 champion put to bed for another year), I was happy enough to sit in the garden, (admiring my azaleas, and marvelling at my marigolds), listening to the final day of the Open from a serene-sounding Royal St George’s – punctuated by updates from the thrilling events at Silverstone. What a
LANCASHIRE & NORTH WEST MAGAZINE
race that was. Equally however, there were the long-awaited forays into areas beyond one’s immediate back yard, and which occasions moreover seemed to epitomize summer, I.E. summer as it ought to be, not as we are apt to know it. In Morecambe, the sun shone, people flocked to the rides, swam in the sea, ate icecream, laughed, joked, and generally enjoyed themselves – and it was lovely to see Eric, the iconic façade of the Midlands, and the enthralling vista of the surrounding hills again. There was just an air of feel-good about the whole day. Walking by the river in Preston by contrast provided sun-bathed weeping willows, golden privet, mirror-like waters, peace, and tranquillity. Finally, Lytham presented yachts, ducks, geese, dog-walkers, and, outside the restaurant where, on a whim, we stopped for a wondrous seafood risotto, (like you do – don’t you?), some glorious flowers, and a guy performing magic tricks – ignored by practically everyone, poor guy. So one way or another, autumn can definitely wait to my mind. Then again, I guess there’s always the US Open, the Ryder Cup, the gymnastics world championships, and the rugby league world cup. Not all bad then. www.lancmag.com
