But we have closed the umbrellas over the tables on which we hoped to have tea on warm afternoons. It was a ritual admission that the summer, which never really started, is over. School is back — I can tell by the number of 4X4s outside my house at nine o’clock on a weekday morning — and the wreaths on the war memorial are sufficiently withered to prevent any regrets at their removal in time for new poppies to bloom next Armistice Day.
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