Swifts, being, erm, swift

I went out for a joggy walk the other day (not quite a jog, not quite a walk) and took myself off up to the local park.

I puffed my way down Lovers' Walk, keeping my eyes peeled for dog poop as the path wended its way along the side of the little stream.  I reached the end of the Walk and gratefully hung over the wooden hand-rail, as is my wont, to get my breath back.

How beautiful and still it is over the cricket and shinty pitches, I thought.  Early morning dew gleamed like abandoned diamonds in the shivering grass.

I listened for the familiar 'sweeee'  of the swifts as they swooped in to pick up insects from the grass

Nothing.  Not a sweee to be heard, there was nothing darting over the pitches, only whistling young seagulls flapping past - on their ungainly way to rip open bin bags, no doubt.

I walked to the bottom of the steps and stood on the path, the early morning sun casting long cool shadows; I stood for ages: looking, listening (getting my breath back).

The swifts were gone.

I picked up the pace and ran all the way home, my lungs burning and my side aching.

Summer was officially over.

And you know what that means.

AW11 is officially here.

And I haven't got a thing to wear.