On it finally happening.

So you are splashing through the big piles of leaves on you way to work, kicking them about, enjoying the crunch.

There’s a man coming towards you.

He catches your eye, grins, and says ‘Autumn. Takes me right back to my childhood.’

And that’s when you realise the Star isn’t with you.

On the Victoria and Albert Museum.

The Victoria and Albert Museum doesn’t expect many visits from the Star.

I’m not sure why this is true, given that its sumptuous cafe – there are glittering chandeliers, high ceilings, domes, columns, impressive interior tiles on the walls and the floors and the ceiling, as well as stained glass windows – was full of families with young children yesterday.

But having sculptures of interestingly textured stone at floor height is an invitation to disaster.

Of course you are now so very into your toddler game that, as you saw the Star heading delightedly for a particularly inviting looking East Asian dragon, you reasoned that, as they had put these statues out on display within easy touching distance of all and two-year olds, they must expect, nay, perhaps encourage, a bit of tactile investigation. And having run a mental check on how sticky he was likely to be, you let him get on with it.

But as the Star gave the priceless piece of work a few energetic pats, out of the corner of your eye you saw two museum workers give identical jerks of involuntary horror, came to your senses and dragged your boy away. And thereafter spent an energetic, although by and large succesful, half hour chasing the Star through the galleries, heading him off whenever he looked like he was getting too close to something irreplaceable.

You did have a slightly anxious moment when the Star started playing peekaboo around the bases of some busts. You were leisurely strolling towards him, having ascertained that none of the sculptures were in reaching height, when you distinctly saw George Wyndham* wobble. Surprisingly flimsy, those plinths.

George Wyndham, before his nose was mysteriously broken off.

With nightmarish visions of a Rodin masterpiece in pieces at your feet, you sprinted the last few feet and attempted to grab your son.

Who thought this was great fun and commenced playing hard to get.

The bust wobbled again, and I swear time stopped for a second or two.

However, the Star was retrieved without further incident in the end and escorted from the building, tucked firmly under one arm.

You will be going again, but perhaps you will stick to the collections behind glass.

The problem with that is just as your heart swells with pride as the Star lets our a howl of obvious delight and sprints towards a display case is what he is actually interested in is the little placard describing what’s on show. And the one in the case next to that. And the one next to that.

That Star, in fact, remained distinctly underwhelmed by the art and design masterworks, being far more interested in the fire extinguishers, the way his voice echoed when he shrieked, the marble steps in the Raphael gallery, the slipperiness of the floor and the pull out rope barrier dispensers on the walls.

*Although it could have been Honore de Balzac. Adrenaline surges really interfere with your ability to read plaques.

On normal service.

Unfortunately, you will not be writing a blog entry tonight.

Die Hard 4.0 is on the TV.

On stuffing chestnuts.

So you are trotting through Hyde Park and you look down and realise you can settle another long running argu… discussion with your husband.

‘Those are the chestnuts you can eat. See, look, not conkers.’ Of which you just happen to have a few in your pocket. The Star likes conkers.

And when the flush of triumph fades away you realise that there are, in fact, quite a few of the nuts lying around. So you stuff a few into your pockets and look up to see where your family has got to. At which point you realise you are going to need something more spacious to store your find, because the trees extend as far as the eye can see, and the only thing stopping you being set for chestnuts from now until Christmas are the other slightly bemused Londoners who have just noticed the same thing you have and are busy filling their own handbags, hats and doggy poo baggies with the free food.

This satisfies some deep-seated instinct in you which in the countryside you assuage by going blackberrying. It’s not that there aren’t blackberries near you, but you would probably have to set up a little camp in amongst the buses to be first on the spot when picking season comes, and besides, it seems entirely wrong to be eating fruit from a plant which grows right alongside an exceptionally busy road. You caught yourself eyeing up the fence to the railway tracks the other week and wondering if you could persuade B to try to boost himself over it, before you decided that no matter how offended you are by the idea of buying blackberries in exceptionally small punnets in the supermarkets, this probably wasn’t the solution.

In Russia you went mushroom picking, an activity which has all the popularity that binge drinking does over here. ‘What,’ you would ask your students of a Friday, ‘are you doing at the weekend?’ And, assuming Moscow wasn’t buried under three feet of snow which sometimes, of course, it was, someone would inevitably answer, ‘Going mushroom picking.’ Or rather ‘Will pick up mushrooms.’ Have phrasal verb, will use it regardless. And future forms are complicated.

You even once nearly became thoroughly lost in the trackless infinite expanse that is a Russian forest because of your enthusiasm for the sport. For which you blame B. His datcha, his woods, his responsibility. When he said, after confidently bounding through the trees for fifteen minutes that he didn’t know how to get back, you though he was joking. Luckily, after only another hour of stumbling around and trying to decide if you’d seen that clump of bushes before, you heard music coming from that direction and headed towards it, bursting out into the sunlight only five miles and a long walk back from where you started.

You felt better when you discovered that one of your neighbours had been gone for three days before he found his way out. I dunno. Townies. At least you made it back with the mushrooms. Just as you brought back the fruit when you got lost blackberrying in Wales too. Hmmm. Clearly you have been an urbanite too long.

The chestnuts, the many many chestnuts, made it home without incident. And you finally cooked them last weekend.

At which point you remembered why you only buy fresh chestnuts for Christmas. Because, much as you love them, spending a very fiddly hour and a half prizing open the shells with an oversized knife and laboriously extracting the crumbly meat inside is not destined to improve you temper.

Although it was a good excuse to eat sprouts.

On mists and mellow fruitfulness.

Given what a kick the Star gets out of autumn, it’s no wonder it’s you favourite season.

Winter in Britain is hardly inspiring after all. Dark, edging into dark grey, possibly damp and the snow lasts, if you are very very very lucky about one day. And the cold! There’s something bone-achingly unpleasant about moist cold. It seeps through any and all protective layerings you can find and settles deep into your shoulder. The one you buggered playing the bass all those years. About the best you can say is that at least it doesn’t dry your skin out. Although who cares when you are shivering despite being snuggled under three blankets and curled around a cup of cocoa?

Spring. Well, spring does have blossoms. They don’t have quite the same crunchy impact that dashing through multi coloured autumnal leaves have, though. And the chances are that it’s still bloody wet. Especially as there’s a dirty great bank holiday blowout right in the middle of it.

Now you will admit to enjoying summer a bit more than usual this year. You spent most of it outside, in a park, under a tree. But then this year was, on balance, relatively dry. London in the grip of a humid heatwave doesn’t bear thinking of. Clammy doesn’t even begin to describe it. But then you own vision of hell is being forced to sit on a beach in the full sun’s glare hour after hour. So the only escape is to the Lake District. And that means more rain.

Autumn, on the other hand, is made for rain. It just makes the leaves glisten that little bit more attractively. And intensifies the sweet smell of decay when they finally fall to the ground. It’s the first dank nip in the air, your shoulder hasn’t started twinging yet and you get to break out your greatcoat, boots and hat.

Autumn creates fog. Fog is exciting. Fog is possibility. Fog shrouds the house in silence and enfolds you in intimacy. Fog leaves little droplets of water on the spiders webs all over the bushes.

The best holidays are in autumn. Forget giant bunnies, forget giant fat men, break out the witches and goblins and ghosties and ghouls. And set off fireworks for at least the three weeks before and preferably after November 5th.

After all, there’s your birthday to be celebrated.

Anyway, it shouldn’t come as any surprise then that the Star thinks autumn is great. Dive into the leaves some unfortunate park gardener has made into a nice tidy pile, play hunt the legs and throw great handfuls of them around. Yes!

Leaves also float when you drop them in the Thames. Fascinating.

But there’s nothing like just crashing through an expanse of fallen foliage. Crunch crackle kick rustle stamp stamp stamp about turn crunch crackle kick rustle stamp stamp stamp about turn crunch crackle kick rustle stamp stamp stamp about turn crunch crackle kick rustle stamp stamp stamp about turn crunch crackle kick rustle stamp stamp stamp about turn crunch crackle kick rustle stamp stamp stamp about turn. Ok. That’s enough for now. Star. Star? Crunch crackle kick rustle stamp stamp stamp about turn crunch crackle kick rustle stamp stamp stamp about turn crunch crackle kick rustle stamp stamp stamp about turn crunch crackle kick rustle stamp stamp stamp about turn crunch crackle kick rustle stamp stamp stamp about turn crunch crackle kick rustle stamp stamp stamp about turn. No look. Mummy’s walking away now. She is, she really is. Crunch crackle kick rustle stamp stamp stamp about turn crunch crackle kick rustle stamp stamp stamp about turn crunch crackle kick rustle stamp stamp stamp about turn crunch crackle kick rustle stamp stamp stamp about turn crunch crackle kick rustle stamp stamp stamp about turn crunch crackle kick rustle stamp stamp stamp about turn. Just let me know when you are done. Crunch crackle kick rustle stamp stamp stamp about turn crunch crackle kick rustle stamp stamp stamp about turn crunch crackle kick rustle stamp stamp stamp about turn crunch crackle kick rustle stamp stamp stamp about turn crunch crackle kick rustle stamp stamp stamp about turn crunch crackle kick rustle stamp stamp stamp about turn… Berries! Red berries! Attractive and probably poisonous red berries! On bushes all around! Mostly within toddler picking height! Look, these ones are more orangey and these ones are positively purple! And over here in the mud, the mud! Which, by the way, is really gooey and smears really well around the mouth! There are mushrooms! And things which Mummy is really sure are toadstools!

It’s even given the Star an idea for a new game. Pretend to put a red berry, or some other object he knows quite well is forbidden like fagbuts, into his mouth, moving very slowly and keeping a wickedly grinning eye on Mummy all the while.

“Foo!” bellows Mummy, charging wearily towards him. “Foo! NOT for eating Star! Not! Foo!”

The Star generally lets you get within a foot or so before flinging the item away.

And then starts again, just as you have slumped onto the nearest bench in relief.

On another day in another place.

The gray sky hangs low, pressing you into the ground, opening out the horizon and forcing everything else to admit its insignificance.

Yet on this unpreposing canvas the reds and yellows of the trees glow. Green grass seems brighter. Buildings are whiter, and every little scrap of litter on the ground shines out in lurid advertisement of its former contents. There is no wind, and no chill in the air. Instead you are wrapped in a gentle soothing clagginess, fine drizzle misting your hair, which is soon warmed away as the fires are lit and bottles of beer are broached.

It is a distinctly autumnal kind of day.

Which is something to be savoured in Russia, a country where your favourite season lasts five minutes between the scorching heat of summer and the first snowfall.

This is also a distinctly Russian works day out.

First, of course, is the enforced dash through culture. A trip around the New Jerusalem Monastery, undergoing, in common with every other Russian Orthodox building at this time, extensive renovations. The money that is being spent on the hand-painted frescoes, re-plastered walls, gold-leafed cupolas and heavily-carved stonemasonry is a testament to just how popular religion becomes if it’s banned for 70-odd years.

Much like any other drug.

The highlight of the visit is a stone heralded as an exact 1:3 scale copy of the boulder which once covered the enterance of the tomb of Christ. A solemn precession of irritable foriegners, resentlful that this is taking up valuable drinking time, shuffle past, intoning “But how do they know?”

But then comes release. Into the park. Head for the windmill. Ignore the replica wooden peasents hut and chapel, ignore Patriach Nikon’s home-in-exile, ignore the riverside baptismal platform, ignore the colourful wishing trees with their penants of hankerchiefs, scarfs and plastic bags. Head straight for the beer.

But there is little time to relax, for the entertainment the Boss has laid on is spectacular. In the middle of a field, in the middle of the sodden Russian countryside, you are seranaded by a full brass band, complete with baton-twirling, bright-smiling majorettes in shocking blue and red uniforms. And then, still reeling from the incongruity of it all, the folk singers come on, persuade a gaggle of capering lads to take bread and salt, chivy the company into the spoon game, and start up the ever popular tunnel procession run, last seen played by teenagers on Red Square before a pop-concert.

And so to bed. Drunken staggering in the half-light, singing, whispering, collapsing.

On turning thirty six.

Fuck.

Although it’s hard to maintain that thought when you are full of wine and Indian food and the Star actually jumped up and down with excitement when you arrived home from work, when your brother came down specially, you got not one but two very large bunches of flowers, and no-one pooed on the carpet.

On getting away with it.

Now adults succumb to the Star’s relentless charm offensive like skittles through butter.

London has become one big village as you are incapable of making it to the end of any given street without someone breaking into a delighted grin at the attempts of the small boy in the pushchair coming towards them to catch, hold and conquer their attention, which leads almost inexorably to them stopping short and making small talk with you whilst engaging the Star in a pointing and babbling competition. For someone who actually jumped out of her skin when she went to a small market town in deepest Shropshire and the locals said hello as she was innocently wandering the streets minding her own business, this is most disconcerting. It’s London. It’s a feat, but everyone pretends that they are the only one in the train carriage come rush hour. Smiling at strangers is definitly not allowed. Engaging in chit chat at bus stops is just wrong.

 Owners of dogs find the Star particularly delightful, as he rushes headlong towards them making roaring noises he fondly thinks of as barking. It’s a rare thing for you to make it across a park without the Star being licked all over by at least three animals, whose owners invariably describes as fantastic with children.

You do wish you didn’t live within a dangerous dog hotspot, but at least it means you have perfected your rugby tackle because of the numerous times you have now grabbed the Star’s hands just as he is about to poke the pit bull in the eye.

Mind you, what’s particularly odd is hearing the tail ends of other people’s conversations as people move in and out of the Star’s orbit.

‘…… oh, look, isn’t he sweet…… look at his cute little smile…… oh, he’s waving…… I love that hat……what’s he doing, what’s he doing now? Oh he’s pointing! At the fagbutt!…….. he’s thrown the hat on the floor! Look at that expression!…… doesn’t he move fast!…….. listen to that, he’s making a train noise!……’

Other children, the Star finds, are a harder nut to bend.

This is probably because the Star has a tendency to spot a child, let out a delighted squeak, go barreling up to them, mug them of their favourite toy and then charge off, waving it triumphantly.

He will then toddle back and offer the toy up, and every time both you and the child fall for it. The Star, however, is merely being mischievous and he invariably snatches the toy back out of their reach and runs off again. Repeat at least five times before you collar him, forcibly remove the toy from his grip and carry him off screeching bad-temperdly under your arm.

So other children regard the Star with a sort of bewildered horror.

Their parents, however, are made of putty in the Star’s gaze and stand around regarding the incident with what the Star feels is a gratifying amusement.

None of this bodes well for the Star’s future moral development.

On bias and prejudice.

You think the Star is the cutest thing since sliced bread and you are not afraid to say so.

However, you have noticed that people who have not met the Star do not believe you. They get this superior gleam in their eye and utter patently indulgent murmurs of completely disbelieving agreement. Fond Mama, you can practically hear them thinking. Aren’t they sweet?

Take your hairdresser, for example. Well, I say your, but in fact you had wondered into her salon for the first time ever after deciding that your split ended bedraggled elflocks, foul sluttish hairs, really were insupportable, only a mere five months after you had first decided this.

So, you were meeting for the first time and you got onto the topic of your son.

Look, of course you are capable of having a conversation about something other than the Star, but the woman was eight and a half months pregnant. What else are you supposed to talk about? The pain! And! Suffering! of her imminent childbirth?

‘What is he like?’ the hairdresser asked.

‘Cute,’ you said, judiciously.

‘Of course,’ she said, knowingly, and you discussed the uncomfortable problem of piles for a while.

Then, just as the blow drier came out, a small face appeared at the large plate-glass window to your left. The Star and his father had got bored of digging in the flowerbeds in the park and had come to see where you were. The face grinned and gurned and waved its little arms about earnestly, and pointed, and made a doubtful expression, and shrugged its shoulders, and turned its palms up to the sky, and jiggled up and down a bit, and bared its teeth, and grinned some more*, and you said ‘That’s my son.’

‘Oh,’ said the hairdresser, in tones of utter surprise,  ’he really is cute, isn’t he?

The Star's more of a dog lover, but you prefer cats.

*B, incidentally, maintains the Star didn’t realise it was you in the chair. B encourages the Star to gape at people through office and shop windows. He, and you are not sure whether you mean the Star or B here, considers it an urban zoo. There’s a cartload of managers round the corner they’re particularly fond of. The Star really has no discrimination, but it’s still quite endearing to be woken up by this in the morning. Although not so much at 5am. Damn that clock change.

On another notable first.

Total time elapsed before the Star attempted to eat the crayons? Five minutes. It was just after breakfast though.

Guess which bit I did and which bit the Star did.