November 1st, and it's snowing. And my onions and gooseberries are still out there in it.
I can feel myself drawing inward, curling up like an armadillo in a tight, armored ball. Keeping out the thought of another long winter. I am torn between huddling inside and not moving for the next seven months, and running shrieking down the street, waving my arms over my head.
I'm sure the neighbours would find the latter more entertaining.