There's something I meant to say, but I can't remember what. It was a great idea, too. Came to me in the shower. No, it wasn't "undress first." I have that written on the outside of the stall.
Oh! Right: I think I remember. OK if I start over? Thanks.
An article on a competing local news website — if you can imagine such a thing — had a list of things to do before the impending frostapocalypse. Break the news to your mums was not one of them; they never believe you anyway. "Check your furnace" was on the list, which may have sent people leaping from their seats to run downstairs and see if the furnace is OK. How you doin'? It's all good? Just wanted to touch base.
I turned on the boiler the other day, hoping it was up for another season. It's a talkative appliance. Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick as the pilot light igniter spits fire at the gas, then the joyful WHOOMPH! of eruption, followed by the gush and slosh of water coursing through the pipes; there's the angry clang of a cold pipe getting the hot sauce for the first time since, oh, THE END OF JUNE, and the comforting aroma of domestic combustion that signals "coziness" but is really burning pet dander.
It's the hinge of fall, the first furnace night; it's the point when the warm days of yore are on the other side of the door, and you stand in the vestibule of winter, thinking you've really overdone this figure of speech. It also means penury: The gas bill will now resemble those sums you see in stories about the annual payout of the Powerball vs. the lump sum.
But it's not enough to test it. You should check for drafts. If your windows are leaky, you might as well be shoving dollar bills through the cracks. Experts say you should light a candle near a window, blow it out, and see if the smoke reveals a draft. If so, fill a caulking gun with Super Glue, and —
Hold on, that's not the thing I wanted to talk about. Close, but not right. Let me start again. It's something about fall.
Oh: leaves. We're not at peak leaf season, which is projected for Oct. 21, 3:15-4:57 p.m. This week contains the glory to come and the proud remains of summer. Around 4 p.m., the sunlight hits the leaves like a flood of honey, and the trees comprise an abstract mosaic that can never be repeated. Every hour in every day in every autumn is different from every one that's come before. And you think: