I keep waiting for the day when I'll wake up and the world will smell of winter. When the damp smell of decay will be replaced with the crisp smell of cold, and the soggy end of a season will be swapped for the sparkly promise of a new one.
And yet every time we venture out, we find that Autumn is still lingering around the edges of November.
The world is still damp, the air is still mild, the earth still squelches underfoot, and the last of the colourful leaves still spiral lazily through the air.
And so even though I'm anxiously awaiting winter, we're still basking in the glorious business of Autumn.
We're still running through bright, squelchy leaves, still spreading our arms and soaring like aeroplanes in wide, damp meadows, still lifting our smiles to the sky and watching leaves as they flutter towards our faces, and still running without the hindrance of coats.
Because any day now I'll open the front door and the air will be empty, light and cold, and if this is the last day of Autumn I want to make sure we enjoy it.