Vicky Ewan: Autumn leaves will be falling - will the spiders be invading?

It's at this time of year that I can sometimes feel a certain melancholia steal its damp fingers over me, and I am imbued with a sense of the loss of another summer; the long road till midwinter's splendour; and the total absence of bank holidays on the horizon
I am not counting Boxing Day at this juncture, and I feel quite strongly that we shouldn't; its proximity to the ultra-fest that is Christmas nullifies it as a day to be considered as a standalone holiday - it is merely Christmas's quieter cousin, always welcome but only appreciated as a plus-one.
The final week of the school holidays is zipping past, the weather is atrocious, and I am contemplating my winter coat, hung on its smug hook for too short a period, with avaricious eyes.
I am dragging my seasonal heels, as usual, unwilling to relinquish my tenacious yet slip-fingered grasp on what, in retrospect, has been one of the happiest summers of recent years, in the full knowledge that another nine or so months will need to pass before I can dust off my espadrilles and step out into the (not at all guaranteed) sunshine once again.
I am idealising, though - I don't possess a pair of espadrilles, though I do recall historical pairs with forlorn nostalgia: they are unequivocally summer shoes.
To add to my list of woes, I can sense the house spiders are lurking, ready to unfurl themselves from every nook and cranny and wreak emotional havoc upon their hapless victims (though last year we actually had the fewest in memory; I am concerned that Miss Pup may have despatched them before they scuttled into my line of sight, although any historical encounters between huge hairy beast and dog that I have witnessed have caused equal parts excitement, confusion and distress in our pooch; goodness knows what the arachnid was thinking (I imagine I can rule out excitement).
My daughter has already happily made the seasonal transition: a recent trip to Exeter in advance of starting a new job for a firm in Marsh Barton saw her return festooned with shopping bags; I was obliged to collect her from the train station, so beladen was she, and so anxious about the perilous strain on the bags' handles (and, no doubt, her arms).
Over four o'clockish tea and doughnuts, she apprised us of her purchases: a veritable treasure trove of sumptuous autumnal treats for the home she is yet to secure, including cushions, door mats, glasses, mugs, and candles, favouring various shades from rust to burn sienna.
Many of the items were boldly Hallowe'en-themed; although pleasingly practical, their appearance would be ephemeral - she blithely announced that a similar spree for Christmas would soon be occurring, the impact on her bank account completely justified by her assertion that she is investing in her future (I am trying not to contemplate the innate fragility and consumability of certain of her purchases).
I imagine any new dwelling she eventually occupies will be subject to such ongoing seasonal caprice. I can see the attraction of these Fall-inspired accoutrements, with their rich rusty leaf patterns and cosy hues ringing in the changes; autumn is one of my favourite seasons - as long as it's not too wet - and the prospect of evenings snuggled under blankets in front of the television is always a charming one.
Still, I can't help but feel, as the earth silently turns its face away from the sun, a reluctance to bid farewell to the long summer break and the burgeoning promise its dawning still invokes within me, a hangover from the years of educational structure that dominated my life until I was 21.
A wise friend once pointed out to me, when I bemoaned the arrival of the final week of the holidays, that its duration was exactly as long as the half-term break, which always provides solid and welcome respite from the simultaneous chaos and discipline of school days, and that it should be appreciated as such;
I try to be mindful of that each year, even as the days wriggle free of my clasp and leave me empty-handed and bereft on the cusp of a new term. On the flip side, there is plenty to look forward to as autumn draws the evenings in: mugs filled with steaming hot chocolate; bonfire night (Miss Pup has thus far taken her two Fifth of Novembers - and the inevitable firework fortnights - in her stride); beautifully-toned leaves swirling through the air to lie crisp underfoot; harvest moons…
I can see that Thanksgiving falls at an opportune time, across the Pond. I will, of course, adjust to the shifting seasons, and my mournfulness will fade; but not too soon. For now, I am content to wallow in my melancholia; I just hope it's a spider-free zone.