Bound By Friendship

Tony Blair rumoured to be up for the bad sex award. A fitting sortie. (The extract quoted on Reading Copy is disgusting, he deserves it.)

Have had a supremely uninteresting weekend. The final wisdom tooth was torn out on Thursday, Friday I spent watching Dexter season three and eating painkillers. Yesterday I went with my parents to close up the cottage for the winter, and to marvel at autumn. Today I made muffins, read three and a half pages of Jonson's Volpone and finally saw Ingebjørg again.

Sharper than languid summer, less washed out than winter's pastels. Coats, gloves, scarves. Wind throwing leaves around in circles. Nor does it hurt that I can perch on a bench to watch beautiful men draw their coats tighter against the wind, hair ruffled, hurrying past. Autumn is dramatic, with strong winds, crashing waves and storms. It means great plays, new books, the booker prize and colours. God, autumn makes me romantic.

Now I have an urge to see the Lord of the Rings trilogy again. I suspect it dissipates when I get through the first Extended Edition.