The Spectator(@spectator):Autumn has arrived; a transition of colour like a Mark Rothko painting with its softened frayed edges. The introduction of a new season is never so profoundly felt as the one from summer to autumn; it’s visceral; a shift in both mind and body, but since 2014, its arrival has filled me with an unshakeable dread. My mother died from cancer at the age of sixty-two on Christmas Eve 2014. I remember so clearly that last autumn I spent with her. I have a memory of one particular day in September that’s incredibly glaring in its ordinariness: a car journey to the local shops. ✍️ Kiran Sidhu Article |

2026.09.20 07:00

Autumn has arrived; a transition of colour like a Mark Rothko painting with its softened frayed edges. The introduction of a new season is never so profoundly felt as the one from summer to autumn; it’s visceral; a shift in both mind and body, but since 2014, its arrival has filled me with an unshakeable dread. My mother died from cancer at the age of sixty-two on Christmas Eve 2014. I remember so clearly that last autumn I spent with her. I have a memory of one particular day in September that’s incredibly glaring in its ordinariness: a car journey to the local shops. ✍️ Kiran Sidhu Article |