False September

It feels like September. The light has changed, the mornings are colder and the leaves are already starting to change, and in some cases, even fall.
The blueberry bushes are tinged with red, they will be spectacular soon, but this is early. In the trees, the birds are fussing. The hummingbirds are already making their way back to Mexico.

Tonight we drove out to Surrey to see Kev's mum on her birthday, but on the way back, the Alex Fraser bridge was blocked with traffic, moving no faster than first gear.
Repairs, and aren't we glad that they're repairing our bridge whilst there's apparently nothing wrong with it.

At work, I'm starting to look at Halloween programmes, writing the French one. Witches, pumpkins, enveloping darkness.

Surreal. Last night, surreal. One of the writers' group told us very calmly and evenly that the cancer he had licked has returned, and now there was little that could be done.
There used to be an ad on TV and I don't remember whether it was in England or Canada, where the patient is receiving news of the cancer that has been diagnosed and then everything else goes fuzzy, while the doctor witters on, the patient's hearing has been blocked by the single word, cancer.

That's what it was like, our friend told us about what treatment was available, what wasn't, I heard none of it, and I presume nor did the others, because he had to repeat everything as we asked questions that I knew had already been answered once. I was glad he spoke about it so freely and openly, but shocked at the possibility that he might not be sitting on that sofa with us at some time in the future.
I feel immeasurably sad about this. I know I'm not alone in that.