It’s that time of the year when I leave for work in the dark and return in the dark and daylight is only experienced through windows . But when I step off the train on Wednesday night after my days in London, I feel in that autumnal darkness, a frisson of magic. When the platform is a mosaic of russet and ruby, amber and copper and the evening air is fragranced with damp leaves and earth and wood smoke and the walk through the voluptuous dark with its painterly sky and clouds scudding across the vampire moon which is glinting on the water - like a stage set laid out for my delight - and Davenham is waiting, looming and I begin to talk to her, “Hello my beautiful Davenham…”; when all of this, I think that there couldn’t be a more perfect ending to the day.
And I burst into tears.
Same time, same place, every week.
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