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Wouldn’t it be loverly

wouldnt it be loverlyDespite the streets being filled with tiny creatures with their faces either splattered with fake blood or entirely covered by morph masks, the spookiest thing about this Halloween was the fact that I spent it sitting outside in a little black dress without even the need for a cardy – in November! (Well it was November by the time I got back home). I spent all day Saturday in the garden in shorts T-shirt and flip-flops not only planting bulbs, but picking the last three roses of the year.

On days like that it is so tempting to react to the IPCC’s findings about the inevitable and catastrophic effects of climate change with a big fat shrug, take a smug look at the still-off central heating dial and pour ourselves another mint julep as we fan ourselves on the porch.

That was before Sunday morning’s big-fat wake up call when rain lashed through my open bedroom window for two hours before I noticed it dripping off the curtains, turning our tiny little road into a river of water and mud.

We quickly abandoned our planned outing to the Tower of London to see Paul Cummins and Tom Piper’s ceramic poppy installation. “No”, I said, “it’s far too wet and muddy to stand outside for hours paying tribute to the 888,246 men and women who sacrificed their lives in the mud of the Somme, especially when the clock stands at ten to three and there’s Devon honey still for tea”.

So we stayed home, practiced Katy’s times tables, worked out how much CO2 (at least 70 per cent apparently) we’d save by putting in a log burner and made a lemon drizzle cake. I’m not sure those were the freedoms that Rupert Brooke and Great Aunt Gertrude’s brother and her fiancé fought and died for a hundred years ago, but I’m very grateful for them.

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