On the railings just beyond my office window, four flags droop in the sun. Four union jacks emblazoned with the visages of a red headed man and a brown skinned woman. The meek breeze in which they twitch is the perfect illustration of my interest in the issue. The fat young leaves that regale the adolescent plane trees, obscuring the view of the detached townhouses with their electric gates, are bigger news to me. I used to love Autumn more than Spring but now the opposite is true. An old poet at the open mic once condemned Autumn’s parade of warm colours as a deception, a psychedelic spasm within a dying brain. In leaving youth behind I learn to truly love it, the thick stupid torrents of blood, cum and chlorophyll. The sound of my daughters in the next room could be the rapture of lambs, astounded at their own leaping limbs, entranced by their own bleating. There is so much joy to be taken but not a single blade of it can be kept.