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There seems to be too much weather around at the moment. Sometimes you could just do with less: have it spread more evenly throughout the year; smooth out the peaks and troughs. Maybe it is to be expected: a few rainstorms; a few gusts of wind; it is autumn, after all. When the sun is out, it all looks rather picturesque, with antique gold leaves littering the pavements. Though when the clouds roll over, everything turns duller and damper; and drippier.

I'm not sure what Cat makes of it, if anything. She wasn't around this time last year, but living a life of luxury (if constrained in terms of space) at the animal sanctuary. (It would be interesting, by the way, to know how cats describe to each other their confined living quarters: not enough room to swing a mouse, perhaps.) You would have thought the recent colder and wetter weather would discourage her from going out, but she doesn't seem to mind getting moistened occasionally; and, to tell the truth, she never bothered to go out much in the height of summer either, but preferred to flop on the conservatory floor looking too exhausted to make the effort. Perhaps she is just too domesticated to pay much attention to the call of the wild beckoning her to go roaming around the neighbouring back gardens, but happier to stay put, hogging the sofa, so as to be ready for action whenever there is a chance of food. And there are times, like this evening, when she comes racing back into the house, followed by an alarming flapping of the cat flap, and accompanied by a lot of hissing; suggesting something unpleasant was chasing her. Bravely I stuck my head out of the back door to frighten away whatever was there, assuming it was just another cat. But you never know: it could have been something bigger and fiercer; the sort of thing that might send me, let alone Cat, scurrying back into the house. As it was, there was nothing to be seen in the garden; though I decided not to look too hard.