Evenings.

Topping up the bird feed table at twilight, braced against a wind which feels almost ice-cold after the glorious warmth of summer.

Feeling downcast at the approach of winter and wondering whether I have one more summer left to me.

Closing the curtains against the deep darkness of windows laden with the unwholesome wetness of condensation. I have a particular dislike of condensation, probably because it says 'your room is not warm enough to dissipate me.'

Dragging myself out of a state of torpor in order to wash the dishes and vacuum my office and the kitchen, the two rooms in which I spend most of my time.

Trying to think of something about which to write a blog post because, little though it matters, no other activity seems to matter much at all.

Feeling the need of feminine company, but only if her mind matches mine, she greatly enjoys autumn garden clearance work, and she doesn't want to live with me.

Being pleased that at least I'm not hungry, nor busy trying to find a less draughty shop doorway in which to spend the night.

I suppose that will do.