And the month just slips away...

But this morning I awoke to the most extraordinary sepia sky.

October, already? Bah!

No, I'm not going to revisit that old cliche about how time seems to be trotting along at a much quicker pace nowadays (even though it's true) and instead I'm going to ramble.

Yesterday I went for a walk. I'd traipsed up to Queen's Park to drop off a timesheet, a journey which had taken a bizarrely long time. Queen's Park is still in London, but it took me an hour and a half to get there. No delays, no trains standing for twenty minutes in a tunnel, but still: an hour and a half. By the time I arrived in Queen's Park, I felt travel-sick.

I haven't been travel-sick in years. It assaulted me regularly when I was a kid, but this was the first time in about twenty years that I've had that squicky feeling my stomach. So instead of travelling directly home - as I planned - I went for a walk instead.

And what a nice walk it was, too! I walked down to Westbourne Park, past the Grand Union Canal, skirted around Notting Hill (at least, I think I skirted it. I might have been in it. I've no idea) and ended up walking down Bayswater, past Whiteley's shopping centre and down to Kensington Park. That was lovely. I walked through the park until I reached Hyde Park, and then followed the road to Marble Arch. As I walked, I simply enjoyed. No iPod, no stories. Just me, and the city.

Because I do love London. No, that's not strong enough. I adore this city, entirely and completely. Really. I feel safe here, protected.

More than that, I enjoy it, as I enjoy the company of other people. There's a spirit to this place, a personality. I've lived here for over ten years, and it's still new. I'd never walked down this part of London before, you see, though I've flitted through it, so yesterday was filled with the joys of discovering something new about somebody you thought you knew well. There's endless contrast, there's the architecture, there's the distinctive flavour of each different area. There's discovery, there's beauty. Oh, yes. I love this city.

I also love this city in this season. Kensington Park was beautiful, with the squirrels out in full force, digging away at the soil. I know a lot of people dismiss them as vermin, but they make me laugh. Because it was Friday, and during working hours, the place wasn't that busy, and I also got to see the park-workers at their industry, maintaining the dignity and beauty of the place. 

So a good day in all, right? Except for one thing: I want to revisit the start of my novel, begin it a point in the story when something is actually happening. I've been meaning to revisit it since the beginning of the week and, somehow, I haven't. I don't know why, but I do know that my reluctance means something more than laziness.

Brambles and berries

I do love autumn. At the first hint of a misted morning, I become overwhelmed with the urge to read Keats and Tennyson and other poets of that ilk, swathe myself in some sort of velvet cloak and find a bosky path along which I can walk whilst admiring the gold and russet fall of leaves about me. 

I also become alarmingly poetic.

No, but really, I love this time of year. I always have. There's something satisfying about it, in a way that no other season is. Sure, I like spring. Spring is fun, because you've had the deep dark and depressing days of January and February and, thank goodness, they're coming to an end. Plus, Spring brings with it a cornucopia of bank holidays. 

Winter I like, but only at the beginning. I like it in December, when it comes adorned with the jewels of Christmas, but it loses its novelty when the lights and glitter become the grim reality of January. By February, I'm over it. Unless there's snow, of course. If there's snow, I'm happy as can be. And, no matter how bad winter gets, there's always hot chocolate.

Summer I like, but only cautiously. Whereas snow turns me into a grinning, dancing, spirited elf, summer heat turns me into a sticky troll. I hate it. I become slow and stupid and sickly. I switch off. I can't leave the house without having to be thorough with sunblock and hats.  It's an endurance test,  made only somewhat bearable by those long evenings, Wimbledon, and Pimms. 

But autumn! The colours, the scents, the flavours! It's the season, more than any other, that assaults the senses. It's the earth being self-consciously glamorous, showing off all the marvellous things it can do, before the monastic winter takes over. The earlier onset of night is merely cosy, not yet threatening.

And, there's something else about autumn. Something magical.

But enough of this! More of magic and mysteries tomorrow. Notice how I'm not apologising for having abandoned my blog over the summer. It was summer, it was hard work to get anything done. Besides, I was busy changing my life and working on my book. And yes, more of that later, too.

Wimbledon question answered.

So I have been profoundly lax ... and the only reason to offer is that of sheer laziness.

However, now that the school year is winding down and the end is, finally, in sight, I've got time to catch breath.

In all fairness, ever since the Wimbledon final I've been pretty breathless. That was some humdinger of a match. As those five sets came to their end in the gloom of a July evening, a sense of destiny prevailed. This was a great tennis match - some commentators believe it was one of the greatest - and, whether you agree or not, it's certainly true that it created a buzz around the sport that we - those who read the British press, that is - haven't felt in a long time.

Some of that buzz was generated by Andy Murray's win against Richard Gasquet, a win that was significant for a whole set full of reasons. For me, it was a good win, if only because it broke that fourth round monkey which Murray's carried about since he began his professional career. Importantly, we also saw Murray take a win against one of his fellow 21 year olds. Possibly it's only keen tennis followers who know this, but Murray has a shocking record against his contemporaries - your Nadals, your Djokovics, your Gasquets - which is a fact that has worried me slightly. Part of the problem, though, is that the first two names on that list belong to two players who have stepped far away from the rest of the crowd. Murray, for all his hard work and the clear advances he has made with his game, is still very much one of the top ten names. He's not anywhere near the top three - yet.

The top three! Roger, Rafa and, as of the Oz Open this year, Nole. But come the clay season, only one name mattered.

Rafa. Could he stay unbeatable on clay? I think this was a valid question, back in March. After all, Rafa had seemed god-like until he lost to Roger at Wimbledon; the US hard court swing seemed to see him drop into relative doldrums which he didn't show any signs of rising from once the 2008 season began. Rumours of chronic injury persisted; some people seriously considered the idea that Rafa would lose his no. 2 spot to Nole. It seemed possible.

And then the ATP moved onto clay and all conjecture became ridiculous. Rafa wasn't in any trouble on clay. If anything, unbelievably, he was better.

Then came Roland Garros, and the result - the shock result - that I discussed in my last post. What would happen on grass? Could Rafa improve last year's results? Would Roger keep his grass-court crown?

This buzz followed Rafa onto the grass courts of Queens. But for the first time, I sensed a new approach in the media coverage of him. For the first time, there was respect. For the first time, Rafa was presented as a player who had a real chance on this surface and not just as a clay-court great. BBC coverage was positively - and in the case of Andrew Castle, sickeningly - sycophantic. And then Rafa won Queen's and the buzz became something bigger.

For the first time, the pre-Wimbledon discussions of the potential winner showed a distinct two camps. That the winner would be either Rafa or Roger was never in doubt - sorry, Murray - but which one of the two...well, that discussion went on and on. Both had won their pre-Wimbledon tournaments and both showed great form. But that final at Roland Garros... well, it had left too many questions in the minds of the serious tennis commentator. Look down at my post: it wasn't just the win, it was the nature of the win.

Both Rafa and Roger showed imperious form in the run to the final. Sure, Rafa dropped a set, but somehow never seemed in any danger. As for Roger... I don't have the stats on me, but I don't think anybody even had a break point against him. He seemed so at home at Wimbledon, so at ease. So what if Rafa seemed to be in the same tennis zone that had taken him to the title at Roland Garros? This was Roger Federer. This was Wimbledon. Some things never change, and one of those things is what happens when you put that man in that place on the final Sunday. Right? 

Oh, but that final! Two sets of jaw-dropping tennis from Rafa, two sets of jaw-dropping fight from Roger. Every martial metaphor I can think of springs to mind for this match ... everything wonderful about tennis was displayed during that long July afternoon. Roger fought, he fought with every bone and sinew, he fought with every breath, he fought with every moment of long experience, he fought until the very last point and in no way did he let himself down. This was no concession, this was not the bittersweet goodbye of the overthrown king - this was something he wanted, something he cared about and something to which he gave his all.

And against a different opponent, it would have made all the difference. But if there is such a thing as destiny, if fate does indeed interfere in the lives of man, then it was busy in that match. Rafa was the indomitable gladiator, seeing the fight in his opponent... and fighting harder. If Roger fought with every bone and sinew, Rafa fought with bone, sinew, muscle and blood. From the first, it seemed, Rafa believed this was his to lose ... and he wasn't going to lose.

And he didn't.

Two weeks later, and tennis has become relegated to its usual position, third bullet-point down in the 'Other Sports' column. Now all talk is, lazily, of the Olympics and (in the British media at least) of the latest young British talent to show us that we have reason to worry about our next generation of could-be champions. 

Yet, I don't think anybody will easily forget the drama that played out during that long July afternoon. When we saw, once and for all, that great sport is the same as great art, with the same breathless humanity demonstrated in each cheer and each groan; when we saw that those human traits which can be used for so much ill - pride and obstinacy and passion - can be turned to such greatness. I felt proud to be a fan of this sport, and proud to be a fan of such great sportsmen. These are the best of times in tennis, at least, I have no doubt.

And just to end this entry in a small and petty way, here's my final thought. I'm a woman, and I think this final, more than any other perhaps, shows what a profound joke the equal prize monies given at a Grand Slam is. If women want to earn the same, they should play best of five sets. Simple as. Otherwise - and excuse the language - they're taking the piss.

But what about Wimbledon?

Skin still rashed up, but I'm not going to write about that because it's far too depressing.

Yesterday was the men's final at Roland Garros. Just as it has been for the last few years, it was a match between Rafa Nadal and Roger Federer. Just as it has been for the last few years, it resulted in a victory for Rafa Nadal. What makes it different this year, though, is the nature of the result.

6-1, 6-3, 6-0. Straight sets. Two trips to the bakery. Comprehensive. Embarrassing. Unbelievable.

Prior to the final, both players gave the usual soundbites. No, said Rafa, it wasn't certain that he'd win; yes, it was always a pleasure to play Federer, one of the greatest players of all time; yes, he'd play his best and that was all he could do. As for Federer, he'd never felt closer to taking that elusive RG title and he thought he now had the game to beat Nadal. No, his lack of form so far didn't worry him. This year, quoth he, would be his year. And, for what it's worth, other people - including the great Bjorn Borg - agreed with him.

6-1, 6-3, 6-0. 

The first time Roger has had a love set since 1999. 

It was a strange match to watch. There was a sense that you were watching something special, something historic, but for all the wrong reasons. As forehand after forehand sprayed wide, as volleys and drop shots failed to clear the net, it all felt like some tennis-themed Twilight Zone. This was Roger Federer - or looked like him - but where were his impossibly angled passing shots, the imperious net game? Where was the ballet tennis that has seen him reign supreme over the tennis world for the last few years? Remember, this is the guy who has been number one in the world since 2004. This is the guy who, during 2006 and 2007 seemed entirely unbeatable (unless it was a clay court and his opponent was Rafa).  What was this?

The truth is, of course, that this year Roger Federer has been a shadow of his former self. He lost to Mardy Fish and to Andy Roddick - which, for some people, has been the sign of a forthcoming apocalypse - and has been unable to find the form that he's enjoyed over the last few years. Glandular Fever has been blamed - apparently contracted prior to the Australian Open - but whatever the reason, he's failed to find perfection. 

Oh, there have been glimpses of his usual stunning play, but no more than that. His semi-final against Monfils at RG this year was perhaps the most telling: there were two Rogers out there. One of the Rogers was the dominating Roger, the unbeatable Roger. The other Roger couldn't hit the ball within the lines - or over the net - to save his life. Luckily the first Roger had more court-time than the latter, but it can't have felt like a good match and he can't have been happy when he sat down for a post-match analysis.

It's been easy to forget that, years ago, Roger Federer was considered a possible underachiever, somebody who had to sort out his mental demons if he were ever to hit his potential. His self-confidence was hard-won; that incredible aura of invincibility was a prize, not a right. In other words, this wasn't something that came naturally to him. He'd earned it.

So what now? As usual, he was positive in post-match presser, and claimed that it wouldn't affect his mental preparation for the grass court season; he is, he believes, still the favourite for Wimbledon. 

Well, yes. It'd be foolish to think that anybody else will be walking away the victor from SW19 in July. But, fool that I am, I can't help looking down the list of players... and seeing a few players that might just take the crown from the King.

Yuck. And also, ouch.

So the little bit of eczema I thought I had isn't eczema. It's dermatitis.

 

And the rash on my ear isn't eczema. It's impetigo.

Apparently.

I really should go and see the doctor more often. I'm on antibiotics and have to stay off work until the grossness clears up. 

But I'm a bit worried. I'm usually a healthy sort of person and this year I've had quite a few low-level annoyances. Not big dramatic illnesses - touch wood, thank goodness etc etc - but stupid little things. I'm not sure if fungal infections can stick around and cause chronic little things, but I'm beginning to think that could be the case.

Notice I'm not looking it up, though. Just thinking about it. At this stage it's an annoyance, nothing more.

Ooh, I've eaten too much.

Pound cake is good. Very good, especially when served with strawberries and cream.

Yes, I know it's decadent. But half-term is over in a few hours and I've got to do something to keep up my spirits.

I made the pound cake today, incidentally, not yesterday. But I have a very good excuse. Yesterday I was traumatised by an Evil Insect Incident. Afterwards I had to have a good long lie-down, so pound cake had to wait.

What was the incident? Oh, no doubt it'll seem trivial now. No doubt, it'll seem like a girly over-reaction, now. But yesterday...

...okay, it was a small thing. I'd decided to marinade some salmon in a sort of honeyandfresh gingerandchilli sort of sauce, which I'd make from scratch. I chucked the salmon into a dish, squeezed on a bit of olive oil, a bit of honey, a bit of soy sauce, a bit of sliced ginger. Then I grabbed a chilli pepper and cut in half. I had some idea of using half of it and keeping the other half until the next day.

As I cut into it, I noticed a dry sort of dusty stuff crumble out onto the chopping board. I didn't think too much of it - I've seen that before - but then I noticed movement.

Something moving.

In the chilli.

Already groaning with disgust, I looked closer. 

There it was! A wriggly little translucent ridged grub, trying to hide underneath the seed membrane.

I'm not ashamed to admit that I screamed. Yes. Actually screamed. High-pitched. Girly. You know the kind.

The chilli pepper went into the bin and then very quickly down the rubbish chute. No way was I keeping that little beastie anywhere within eyeshot. I threw away the other chillis I'd bought, just in case there was some kind of colony involved.

Still shuddering. Yuck.

I used dried chilli flakes instead. Just as good, actually. But I fear I'll never summon up the courage to cut open a fresh chilli pepper again.