sent from: Mortimer Street, London, UK. destination: Weybridge, Surrey, UK

People say, unfairly and lazily,  that Los Angeles has no seasons. I miss the smell of night-flowering jasmine in the Hollywood hills, the Santa Ana winds of late summer, the wildflowers of early spring. Still, nothing is as evocative of change or childhood memory as the seasons in England. The first scent of burning leaves in September, the ripening conkers, the dark green leaves reddening, the gust of wind reddening your cheeks, nose and ears for the first time. The fields will start to get muddy, achieving their peak as boys playing rugby take to the sodden mess. I hated the sodden mess, but I loved the mud. 

Happy Fall.. I mean, Autumn.

 Happy Birthday Big Sister, on this first day of Autumn.