September has always sucked, ever since the days when that endless stretch of summer holidays came to an end and you had to go back to the drudgery of school. Everything is dull. And damp. And blah. It’s getting dark now at 8pm and it’s misty in the mornings. My emails are shouting, “BACK TO SCHOOL!” and “NEW SEASON KNITWEAR!” at me (note to self – I really should get some friends to email me rather than just ASOS.com). I don’t want to buy knitwear, and honestly, I was never the kind of child that got excited about new pencil cases or school shoes (IT’S NOT REALLY SHOE SHOPPING – IT’S NOT! DON’T EVER LET YOUR PARENTS CONVINCE YOU IT IS!). BBQ’s and garden parties are a distant memory now, and there is nothing to look forward to until Christmas, which is still far enough away that it isn’t remotely exciting. September even sucks at work for reasons far too boring to go into, and it doesn’t help that I’m meant to have just returned a newly married woman, refreshed and fresh off a plane from a beautiful Honeymoon (I hadn’t even planned a Honeymoon, so I don’t know where that vision came from.)
The worst thing about September though? It’s like being in a month long limbo. August is Summer – it’s all holidays and Pimms and long, warm evenings (it’s not. This is England. But we like to think it is). October is Autumn – crisp, sunny afternoons, crunchy leaves and pumpkins (again, not really, in England, but we keep kidding ourselves it is). September is the grey, blah space in between. Seasonal purgatory. If I knew anything at all about ‘Fashion’ I’d be teaching you how to plan your ‘Transitional Wardrobe’ and waxing lyrical about the art of ‘Layering’, but the truth is, I have no bloody clue how you are meant to dress in September. It gets cold, cold enough to pull all your jumpers out of the depths of the closet and take all your coats to the dry cleaners, and just long enough to get you feeling optimistic about buying boots and drinking mulled wine. Then suddenly, it’s warm again, and you have to cart that big, stupid coat around with you all day, and you feel foolish for thinking about mulled wine, all you want now is an Aperol Spritz and an ice cream. Cue the heavens opening – but September rain isn’t just rain, oh no. It’s sudden, freak downpours that last about an hour, and only ever seem to happen when you’re on your way somewhere – when you’re inside it’s back to sunshine again, conning you into thinking it’s far warmer outside that it actually is. That’s how you end up leaving that big, stupid coat at work and getting drenched on the way home, and then your umbrella on the bus, never to be seen again. Primark must make a killing on umbrellas in September.
These pictures basically demonstrate all that to a tee. We took the dog out for our usual jaunt. I couldn’t work out what the weather was doing, so I opted for my default Autumn uniform, as seen already seen in my last post – a tea dress, thick tights, leather jacket and boots. You will be treated to seeing a lot more of this combo over the coming weeks, I’m sure. Don’t worry, I hate to feel like I’m wearing the same thing everyday, so I’ve built myself an impressive mix and match selection over the last couple of years. You’re welcome! Anyhow, we’d just about had enough time to remark on how lovely and quiet it was now that the kids had gone back to school, and take some really awful, blurry outfit shots, when typical September sorcery happened. Look at me here (sorry, you’ll probably have to squint a bit!) – I’m blatantly thinking, “I regret wearing this jacket. It’s a bit warm. I wish I’d brought a bigger bag…”
Oh wait, what’s that behind me in this nonchalant selfie?
Is that a hell mouth opening in the sky? The apocalypse perhaps? Nope. It’s just one of those September ‘showers’. Good job you brought your umbrella in that big bag of yours Steph… Ah, crap. Here’s me shortly afterwards, seeking refuge in the car, not impressed:
Please end, September. I don’t like you. Winter is only fun if there is snow, or at the very least a scattering of frost and bright sunlight. Go away. My well being depends on it, as does the well being of my readers, who probably can’t take another 21 days of my melodramatic whining. Or another 21 days of tea dresses….