I put the not-fit-for-purpose coat in the charity pile. It was a relatively easy decision as the coat had been - shall we say - hanging in some very insalubrious places. And I think that's about as far as we can go with that metaphor without getting very confused.
After that, one can only turn to crisps, parakeets and Charlotte Bronte. I only eat crisps at work when one colleague is not in, as she comments on my food. Today was a crisp day. It was also a chocolate brownie day but that was not my fault: I needed change of a twenty for this bloke who was selling a cake stand and Starbucks didn't have any of my favourite cookies.
Twice in the last two days, a collective noun of parakeets - about twenty of them - has flown in a great swag down the path ahead of me in the Parc. Back in the day when I thought they were only in London, the "Jimi Hendrix released a pair of parakeets" myth seemed vaguely believable, but they are also in Brussels, Paris, Barcelona, and probably other places with trees. I don't think Jimi's parakeets could have spawned all the European parakeets. It will remain a mystery.
So I'm walking through the Parc thinking I bet they weren't here in Charlotte Bronte's time, which set me to wondering what else was not. None of the trees look 160 years old. The bandstand is mentioned in Villette. Are the great fantail fountains in the book? I dunno, I'll have to actually read it I suppose. See if Lucy Snowe leaps in them naked.
Somebody outside is singing Anarchy in the UK. Better that than Sweet Caroline*, I suppose.
I apologise for the fragmentary nature of this post tonight. I don't have a coat and autumn is upon us. Mists and mellow thingy-ness.
*When I went to see Robbie Williams, he had obviously been advised of my musical torture, because he performed Sweet Caroline. I put my head in my hands.