I wore thongs on Friday, which was complete folly. I was pushing the limits of summer, desperately hoping September’s Indian summer would stretch into October. But the temperatures have barely ascended beyond the mid-60s so it’s time to give the fantasy up.
I know a lot of people love fall. It means hot tea and new cashmere sweaters; pumpkin soup and toasty fireplaces. But to me, it’s a slow descent into the bowels of winter. The only good thing it means is that I can close my bathroom window at night, giving me a better chance of sleeping through drunken thugs who yell and break bottles on my street corner at 3 a.m.