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While the adjustment from summer to autumn can be tough – the reacquaintance with relentless rain and walking home from work in darkness – the colours are a solace. Walking around parks in October conjures Vincent Van Gogh’s Autumn Landscape With Four Trees (1885); the sienna, veiny delights of Georgia O’Keeffe’s Autumn Leaves (1924); Gustav Klimt’s Birch Forest I (1902). But best of all, David Hockney’s huge studies of Woldgate Woods (2006).

Without wishing to go full curmudgeon, something is lost in the dying art of kids jumping into piles of leaves, eschewed for the bleeps, vibrations and scrolling of tech. Kicking up carefully raked leaf hills to the dismay of sighing park rangers. Taking a rugby-style kick and watching them flutter down like confetti. Mittens swaying from bare clapping hands. Instead we have articles warning parents of ticks and scratches.

Autumn leaves smell good. The Cambridge Dictionary defines humus as: “Dark earth made of organic material such as decayed leaves and plants.” There doesn’t seem to be a specific word describing this scent, but there should. Humusy?

Also, leaves sound good. There is the delightful crinkling that finds its way into ASMR playlists and atmospheric television scenes where characters walk together, breaking up or coming together, with hands deep in wool coat pockets, breath visible.

They feel good: that twiddling of stems between agitated fingers. They can be useful, too. Slipped between the pages of a book to keep a place or, less poetically, to wipe shit off a shoe.

The Russians were especially good at autumn. Chekhov, for sure. “Mingled with the autumnal smell of leaves, the gravestones and faded flowers breathed forgiveness, melancholy and peace,”, he wrote. Pushkin: “Autumn attracts me like a neglected girl among her sisters. And, to be quite honest, she is the only one that warms my heart.” I wouldn’t disagree.