Fragments of Autumn.

There are ghosts in this house.

College is broken up by weekends spent under the careful watch of pylons with a special Lunar Lady who teaches me how to roll and sing.

This is what happens to yo' face when you spend three hours researching African American Civil Rights in LSE Library (which is 24 hours btw).

STARBUCKS PARTY TIME.

When us Kool Kidz thankfully surrender to the fruits of capitalism.

Every year I spend the first weekend of November in a Woodland retreat with my mother's side of the family. 

This used to be a mattress. 

Now it's all burned up and beautiful.

I can't comprehend how overwhelmed I was by yellow when I took this picture.

I named him Tarquin.

I named her Marge.

It's ironic that I'm mildly opposed to the wearing of the poppy, yet I'll thankfully stand and watch the symbolic burning of one of my Catholic Brothers.

I'm kidding.

I have no Catholic Brothers.

I just like pretending I'm a pagan.

There are ghosts in this house.

I pretended for a little bit that I was starring in a new Lars Von Trier film...

after about 10 minutes I decided I wasn't in the self mutilating mood.

Here is my Uncle David, who is actually rather tall,

looking rather dwarfed,

by this stone archway.

During the woodland retreat, a group of the adults usually walk to Chatsworth House on the Sunday morning. 

For those who don't know, Chatsworth is a grand old stately home, for you period drama lovers out there, it was used in the filming of Pride and Prejudice and The Duchess.

The younger members of the family usually stay around the log cabins, enjoying the quiet and the spa. 

This year I decided to go on the walk, and immediately slipped twice in my Wellingtons as I walked out the door. 

To be fair our cabin had a wooden verandah which gets very slippery in the wet.

No harm was done, except of course to my anxious temperament, which immediately jumped to suspicious conclusions, my double fall was obviously a bad omen condemning the country walk.

Regardless of what the fates had in store, the walk went splendidly. I arrived to Chatsworth rosy cheeked and high spirited, feeling quite the country bumpkin. 

The weekends achievements also included the discovery of a wishing tree, and glances of the moon in the morning sky.

My Uncle Keith admonishes me for my hyper-idealised love of the countryside.

He despairs at my lack of understanding of the processes behind the aesthetic, condemning my love as twee and superficial.

As a "country lad" by origin, I understand his despair.

Unfortunately, I am an individual who latches on to the aesthetic. 

Growing up amidst the sprawl of East London has taught me one thing, love majestic landscape and love it dearly.

I latch on to regional visuals, they inspire both my dreams and my writing.

The country is pretty, but it's real to me too.

I see pretty in decay, in a chick fallen from it's nest, a fox eating itself. (another Von Trier reference there.)

I know owls don't hoot in a choreographed fashion.

I'd sooner be bitten than have a dear lick my palm.

Shiny shiny,

shiny boots of leather.

Lastly I'll attempt to scare you with a couple of shots from The Last Tuesday Society's Danse Macabre pre drinks.

The best way to have fun is to get dressed up. Real dressed up.

xoxo