So autumn winds on and we steel our frozen hands to the manure heap of future growth, load the wheelbarrow and trundle down the hoggin path of possibility, scattering adjectives as we go.
There is still autumn colour and we have only had two mild frosts.
I was up in the wood taking leaves out of clogged streams and collecting sticks fallen from the ash trees when I put up a snipe. It flew away with its characteristic drumming wing beat.
Putting Niger seed in a feeder had brought a flourish of goldfinches and the female greater-spotted woodpecker has been on the peanuts right outside the kitchen window.
And drainage has come to the forefront of thought. We, with a huge push from R at my inertness, have got someone with a little digger to appraise our problem.
As a consequence I have been down the garden and cleared out the stream between the two ponds and extracted the overgrowth of watercress. This has been left on the side so any creatures can slip or crawl back into the water before the compost heap beckons.
R is making rum butter and butterscotch sauce for the Church Christmas Fair at the Memorial Hall. I have donated 36 half pound jars of jam and chutney and some books wot I have read.
I still have bulbs not planted - ranunculus and snowflakes (lecojum) and it is time I rose from my recumbent position (got off my bum) and did something about it. The carrots await me (I have got some coriander) as does the soup pan.
I nearly mowed the lawn again this afternoon but fortunately D., a friend, came and rescued me. He is a fine watercolourist and I reject the spellchecker trying to make me spell the word and similar without a 'u'.
The approach of winter is wrapping me in darkness, the afternoons are so short, and New Zealand seems so attractive if it was not for the interminable flight out there. I have need of a wormhole so I can walk in one end and out the other having travelled across the globe. D and J showed me a photo of the beach at Whangamata on the Coramandel Peninsula. Come on lottery - I need enough for a first class flight (or private jet), a house In New Zealand by the sea within walking distance of good eating places for the winter and three months of summer sun, warmth and relaxation.
The people who think they know are saying we are in for a stinking cold of a winter.
They said we would have a poor summer and we had a good one.
R got it right for the summer and she says we will have a mild damp winter - well, we shall see, we shall see.
Time for a beer and some garlic sticks (the best bits of Bombay Mix).
I have lit the wood burner, my chair is ready.