Autumn is here

It’s 9.30 in the morning, and I’m treating myself to a late coffee and a cinnamon bun in the town centre where I grew up. The air is fresh with a faint sting of cold, yet the sunlight pours down in that golden autumn way that feels like a warm hug on a chilly night.

Today’s small indulgence feels especially sweet because only yesterday I awoke in Tuscany, sharing breakfast with my family beneath a bright September sun. I sat in shorts and a T-shirt, eggs and bacon on my plate, the warmth on my back like a gentle promise that summer wasn’t quite over.

But missing a week here in September has meant autumn’s arrival has come suddenly. The market square is now carpeted with crisp brown leaves from the London plane trees, as if the season changed suddenly while I was away.

As I sip the hot coffee and break off a piece of the flaky cinnamon bun, I notice how the moment seems to mirror itself: the bun and the scattered leaves, both crisp and brown; the coffee and the sunlight, both warm and golden. It makes everything feel quietly precious.

Sitting here, in the heart of the town where I’ve spent most of my life, brings a kind of gentle comfort. Familiar faces pass by; we exchange smiles, nods, and sometimes a few friendly words. One of the quiet joys of having worked with young people here for so many years is recognising those once-young faces as they grow, and having them recognise me in return.

In the space of an hour, as I linger over my coffee and bun, so many lives drift past—threads of my own history woven into the rhythm of an ordinary autumn morning.

Picture of me by the pool in Tuscany with a beautiful sunset behind with trees and rolling landscape I am wearing a white vest top and have my hair loose and I'm smiling.