What is it about this time of year? The light? Of a low and tired sun? Gentle and hazy and soft, streaky lilac and orange, peach, grapefruit? Or the coolness of the air, no longer trying so unbearably hard, now cooling and tucking itself up. Somehow it’s 2003. And 2017. And 1995. October is always October.

Maybe it’s the smell of snot, that takes you back. That first cold of the winter, your body giving up now that no one’s asking you out to frollick in the sun. Letting itself bung up with mucus and cosy fatigue. Yes. It’s probably the snot.