I’m not going to be much good at capsule-wardrobing. I’m not a compulsive buyer and I don’t get bored with clothes but I don’t wear separates and I have too many accessories so there’s one thing I can’t blog about. I’m not much good at autumn either. I miss the woodsmoke that always used to characterise it, you couldn’t pay me to drink pumpkin latte, and I think cinnamon and hot chocolate are for winter. On the other hand, I do love the festoons of spider webs that fill up with dew overnight and make my hedge look like Tiffany’s window every morning and the sense of new start that I have despite the fact that I threw myself out of school aged 16 in 1980 and have never started anything in autumn since. Perhaps it’s the feeling I have when I’m this far north of entering a cocoon at the beginning of winter with the expectation of emerging flutterby like and elegant in the spring. Of course, in Scotland, spring is often indistinguishable from winter and elegance hides under coats designed for hefty men working the Northwest Passage.
I am, however, the lucky woman who, if she doesn’t make a hash of a big event in a couple of months, should be living and working between Scotland and Italy for the foreseeable future. I can’t wait to get back to Verona and this time with a sensible camera rather than a massive DSLR that threatens permanent cervical spine damage every time I use it which is why, after nearly four years living there I have something like 42 photographs. And 42 might be the answer to Life, The Universe, and Everything, but it’s not a blogger or instagrammer’s dream.
So, wish me well, if you happen by and read this, and I promise lots of gorgeous photos and reviews of Verona come November.