Autumn is many things to many people. For some, it’s a celebration of sweater weather, the sound of pots bubbling with soups and stews, and the joy of swapping out the light duvet for the heavier one. For others, it’s the sadness of saying goodbye to summer, and misery at the colder, wetter weather, shorter days and darker nights.
These days, I’m a hopeless romantic once September hits – it has grown to be one of my greatest loves. But there was a time when I just didn’t understand it. For years, the arrival of autumn felt like a personal affront, as if the universe was conspiring to inconvenience me, make me miserable, to make it harder to wake up in the mornings, to get out of bed and get on with important things such as, you know, going to work and earning a living.
