Summer is already slipping away.
We light the fire in the lounge against the chilly evenings and talk about moving back down to the cottage when our last guest departs in the middle of next week.
The dahlias haven't even begun to flower. And have we really had our last swim of the year? The pool water feels uninvitingly cool under its so-called heat-retaining cover.
The grass badly needs cutting, but it's sodden and the dogs come panting in from their morning walk with thick mud on their paws, which they trail all over the kitchen floor.
Faced with a grey steady drizzle, I decide to get my hair cut in Leclercs rather than try some soggy weeding. This is my summer haircut you understand - short and easy to care for after swimming.
The hairdresser and I share commiserations over the weather. She's young with brilliant red spikey hair. She solemnly tells me that our wretchedly short summer is all due to the phases of the moon.
She reassures me that next year will be better. I hope she's right.