September had been another wet month, the return of the damp dark days of summer. Saturday had been warm, though – like a hole in the sky, a glimpse of what summer might have been. We sat on benches and let the sun heat the bones in our faces. Then: Sunday. It was as if autumn had dropped in over night: mist and cold air, the kind of cold air that nags at your collar gaps and sleeve holes. In the park a robin sang in a scrub of roadside maples, its song bright and silvery in the thin air. In the gaps between the oaks, a stand of dandelions, probably the last of the year – the flower heads remained clutched and uncertain, curled in on themselves. Every surface was slick and shiny, the ivy leaves sheened with a layer of cold steel, the chipped metal bins beaded with drops of moisture. There’s that odd paradoxical thing with mist in that it foreshortens distance and expands it all at once – R barrelled on ahead on a scooter and quickly seemed far away, but her shrieks, high and wild, quickly came back to us, resonating off invisible walls. The Ash held its usual stillness, in places impenetrable like black stone; but in the shallows it rolled along, water from the moors rushing to the Thames. At the Pooh-sticks bridge we found discarded rotten conkers, and made a broad fan from fallen leaves: pin oak, scarlet oak, horse chestnut. The day turned slowly, slowly turning; we left the park to its hanging silence and faded home like spent ghosts.