It seems every year I forget how much I love autumn. I will venture to say it wont be around much longer here in Alberta, but I am excited at the prospect of it potentially still happening in New York when I get there. The reason for my love of this season is my uncanny ability to dress like a 1940's french spy. Growing up, my grandfather only allowed me to watch British Television programmes in the evening... mostly because it was the only TV he could relate to at the time (I should state that now, at age 84, he loves shows like Desperate Housewives - or "the desperate women" as he calls it). To this day a show called, Allo!, Allo! still flashes into my mind. Whenever I put on a beret and some leather gloves, I feel like I channel Michelle "The Resistance" Dubois and try to fake my best french accent. Something about fall makes it feel perfectly acceptable to wander around looking mysterious and like you're up to something - perhaps it's all the layers and high collars leaving everything under exposed?
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