Saturday: Finchley in repose

It's 83F here in Stepford. I was woken by the smell of cut grass drifting through my bedroom window. The cicadas are still vibrating away; there are birds singing out in the tall trees. The boys & I have skimmed & cleaned the pool, and the dogs, as above, are crashed out on the deck.

I love these Indian summers. They have all the glory of high summer but none of the constant humidity. These September days are bright and crisp, the warm, damp fug of July & August just a memory.

Too chilly to eat out in the evening now, we compensate by breakfasting in the dappled shade on the deck, and floating in the pool to our hearts content, watched over by two pairs of molten Basset eyes.

It's as near to a proper English summer as you can experience here. If I was covering the shows this season, I would be cursing, sweltering in my black new season outfits & vertiginous heels. As it is, I am sticking two fingers up at winter fashion, dressing still in white denim short shorts (who says you can't wear white after Labor Day?), cobalt blue cotton shirts and cork wedges. I have the endless East Coast winter to wear tights & cashmere, boots & closed toe shoes. Why rush the transition?