A third of the way through January already, winter is creeping darkly along. There is  a suggestion from the Met Office that we may have some snow and ice on Saturday, which I really don’t want. Today at eight fifteen, it was a morning for headlights. So different from yesterdays blue, I got wet but it wasn’t raining. 100% humidity and all of it settling on me, turning my hard work curls to frizz.

I walked the usual way to work, and along the path beside a row of Victorian terrace houses, and with nothing but fog ahead, I glanced down. Leaves from the sycamores across the road dotted my way, in various states of deterioration. In August they were rich, bright green – summer’s rain had stopped them from frying, and autumn was late. It was late October before they were yellow, then gold, bronze, brown.

Now a few deep bronze ones had found their way to the edge of the walls. Underfoot, some clear shapes in brown remained, many very dark. Some had felt heavier shoes than others, and had jagged edges. An awful lot were totally trampled into black marks on the flagstones, decayed, disappearing, and waiting for a hard frost or more heavy rain to wash them away. I wonder if they will be visible next week. I must remember to notice.