There is something quite magical about the smell of toast as it wafts down the hallway on a Saturday morning. There is something quite magical about today altogether.

The air is crisp and cold and the sky is the colour of a European winter.

And here I sit, nestled in the layers of my thick, white blanket, wrapped in scarves and beanies and furry sweaters. I am content within the walls of my cosy refuge, but beyond my window the deciduous trees stare longingly. They are solitary, like unused hatstands, tall and bare and lonely.

And all around them the mist seems to hang and the clouds seem to hover only a few feet above the dark, wet road.

Today is a day for tea andscarves and a crackling fire; a day for thunder and rain and thick, woollen socks.

Today is a day to get lost in the words of my favourite book, to sink into it’s sentences and join it’s characters on their journeys. The candles are lit, the kettle has boiled and Autumn has made itself known.

It’s a magical Saturday.


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