I’m clinging on to the last days of summer with my fingertips.

I adore our seasons. I love the fact that we can have blazing hot sunny days and just a few months later be kicking our way through piles of autumn leaves.

Then there’s nights sat by a crackling log fire and the hope of snow followed by the glimpse of daffodil bulbs and the sun re-emerging with some warmth again as the year turns again.

What I’m not sure about is this in-between stage; a tantalising tease of summer one day followed by wet greyness the next.

I don’t know whether I’m grateful the warm days stretch on or impatient for them to just go away and we can get on with the next chapter.

I still don’t feel as if I’ve had my quota of sunshine this year (a cheap trip to the Costas may be on the cards) which means these chillier nights are even harder to take.

Two weeks ago I was sitting in a deckchair in the garden soaking up the sunshine and wishing we had bought a parasol to provide a bit more shade.

The day rolled into a beautiful evening and at 1.30am we were still sitting outdoors in our T-shirts, chatting away with glass of wine or two.

This week, I was trying to avoid the weather reports and the presenter uttering the words “and it will feel considerably cooler”.

And is it too soon to turn the heating on? Jumpers have started re-emerging from the drawer under the bed and strappy dresses are being washed and put away for another year.

Yet there is still warmth in that sun and I’m determined to make the most of it.

So every time in the next few days, if, by some chance, there’s few clouds in the sky with just a hint of some rays, think of me because I will be out there, face turned skywards, eyes closed and breathing it all in, getting my last dose of vitamin D before the chill really sets in.

Meanwhile, my efforts to just “whip up a cake” continue, albeit with limited success.

I now seem to have mastered the sticky ginger and orange cake, but then there’s no excuse at the moment because I had bought double the ingredients the last time I made one.

Remembering just one orange and some eggs was hardly taxing (although as I’d forgotten the ginger last time, I have form).

The trouble is my husband. He adores cooking and now I’ve started baking more, he’s shown an interest too.

His plum bakewell tart was a triumph and once again, he wins the star baker prize.
I’m not bitter, honest.