summer, only a very old one

In a suburban house, October is grey like the suburban dystopias I've read about in novels (usually psychological thrillers). Wind and rain shake yellow leaves, the neighbours have dogs and prams and curious gazes. An atmosphere of quiet bleakness and tedious lives. My vanilla-coloured vintage leather coat feels out of place among Gore-Tex and softshell jackets.

But there are also flowers surprising me in the garden, half-frozen and withering. Blackbirds, magpies, woodpeckers and pheasants among the smaller birds outside the kitchen window. Over-ripe plums dripping juice from a windblown tree. A roaring fire to ward off the chill in a house with empty rooms. Silence that feels like kindness.

A feeling - both sad and comforting - that I don't belong here.

In the rain, I carry an old dog down the steps and then walk slowly, slowly, as he limps after me to sniff along the side of the street. I don't care if my mohair sweater acquires mud and the smell of wet dog.

I go to the fitness center in a grey, square building, as ugly as the grey streets around it. A hopeless greyness that induces weariness. Grey rooms, quiet and mostly empty. A vague smell of sweat and industrial cleaner. Working out on the crosstrainer still feels good, after I plug music into my ears and open my phone screen to a weird Kindle novel.

I walk for miles in the neighbourhood. There are large woods to get lost in. New streets where young families are moving into modern houses. Old streets where old memories dance around me like ghosts from the Seventies and Eighties.

The weather clears up, the sky rises high and blue and icy. The sun is low but warm and tricks me that this is summer, only a very old one.