It's getting chilly.
The air is crisp and clear. The leaves are turning. The cat has taken up pole-vaulting so that he can join us for the night on the loft. Mike is reconsidering his aversion to chaps. I come home for lunch to find a tightly-wrapped wad of blankets on the couch that, when poked, speaks with May's voice. It might actually be time to brave the furnace room and fire up the old Chrysler. (Remember when Chrysler made furnaces as well as cars? No? Me either, but there you are.)
I also figured it was time to bring in the plants off of the porch, so I grabbed them on the way to work and stuck them on the piano bench. A few hours later, I got a call from Deborah. She sounded grumpy.
"Did you mean to leave these plants out for Fiona?