Autumnal mornings

'tis the season of mists ...

(to husband)

"Don't you have an appointment at the doctor's this morning? What time is it?"

"I haven't seen anything lying around."

"Is it in the pile in the hallway?"

"Bedroom floor?"

"Desk?"

"They might have sent a message to your mobile."

"Perhaps best calling to find out ..."

"Oh, at 8.30? Better get going then."

... and mellow ...

(Shout up stairs)

"Come on, boy! You've got to go in 5 minutes!"

(Two minutes later, thankfully downstairs)

"I know you say you hate choir, but you are still going."

"Eat up! There isn't time for chatting!"

"Why haven't you got your shoes on?"

"Have you got everything? Music? Book? Spellings? Pack lunch? Games kit?"

(To daughter)

"Get your coat on. No, don't worry about the doll."

"No, you can't take your bracelet."

"Yes, it is pretty but the headmaster will be very cross with you."

"You can play when you get home. Right now, you have to go to school."

"What do you mean, you can't find your jumper?"

...fruitfulness

Time for a cup of tea...

With apologies to John Keats, To Autumn, 1820:

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.