Musical heaven

Here in suburban Surrey it is already the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. The damson tree in our front garden is so weighed down with fruit that the branches almost reach the ground, as if it were impersonating a weeping willow, and my dear old mum has made two jars of delicious jam, with the promise of many more to come. The leaves on the great chestnut I see from my study window are beginning to turn, the lawn is sodden with rain and the summer holidays already seem a distant memory.

I find that it is always this time of year, rather than 1 January, that brings on reflections about the past, and the future. It’s a legacy, I suppose, of the start of the new academic year, of newly sharpened pencils and panics that you haven’t done nearly as much holiday reading as you were supposed to do.