Diary entry: 11 September 2007

I've just traipsed up the hill to a teacher v. parents meeting to hear all about how our seven year olds get further institutionalised and shed a little more of the innocence with which they were born. I sat in a schoolroom surrounded by walls of brightly coloured disfigured self-portraits, heads of pharaohs, Henry the VIII and his six wives. The headmistress didn’t look out of place – plump, neckless and small-eyed, with a chin that outweighs her forehead, a caricature in herself – as she unimaginatively spouted news about the curriculum, extra-curriculum and what to do if you are late. The parents, mostly mothers, sat perfectly, all groomed hair, plucked eyebrows, subtle afternoon makeup and bleached moustaches. The cloud of musky perfume made me feel nauseous – a deer died for that.

On leaving, I light-heartedly ticked off the deputy head – tarty Miss D – for not photocopying the parents’ notes double-sided and tripped happily into the glowing sunlight. You see, it’s autumn and this is without doubt my favourite time of year when the sun mellows and the air cools, dew glistens, insects lazily die, seeds are carried off to their fate by the soft breeze and smooth fruit gleam from their branches. I’d never really thought about it but I think most of my fantasies are autumnal as well as medieval. We probably have our strongest urges to re- or procreate in the dying season.