Autumn

Whimsy:
this is London, in Autumn.
It is also breathtakingly beautiful
and classic.
The houses are quaint, but here, they aren't even regarded as so; it is the norm. I want an English house for my very own. There are the postboxes, so distainful of our own. These are taller, with more pride, inscribed with the initials of Queenie herself.
The long-bemoaned weather, it has not phased me yet. And I'm not even a coat person. Snigger as you may, but I came to Europe in winter without a coat. Never fear, mildly concerned friend, I do have plans of purchasing one for my very own, but have yet to do so. I have browsed in so-called 'charity stores', but I think the dislike is so deep that my very self prevents me from liking any. (I will, of course, be forced to buy one, ugly or not, when it gets so cold I fear hypothermic responses). I like walking in the foggy air, with droplets of water brushing my face. I get warm, with my brisk pace, although when I go with a naked head (ie beanie-less) my ears complain of the cold. The lingering cold seems to suit the architecture, at least the houses here in the suburbs: they seem to go, together. It is so wonderfully green, as well. Perhaps, I am used to drought, to grass not as green as it may well be, to fountains turned off or trickling very sadly. But here, everything is a bright green, a glossy green. The blades of grass are like those in photographs, with dew droplets trickling off.
I don't recall having such stark and pressing memories of Autumn in Melbourne, and I don't even know why. Is it because perhaps, much of our year is a large combination of every season? That there is not a clear distinction between them all? But I can imagine every other season. Maybe it is not as blatant in Melbourne; London does this particular season with authority.