The Grey and Welcome Sleep of September Afternoons

Summer is everywhere, the light is leached of depth and everything is pale and too loud.
I'd like it to be a rainy autumn day in Worcester, some forgotten fragment of my three years there. A day without lectures and the house on London Road empty. I would like to be walking back from town with a new book or an old album. The sky would be grey and windy. It might have rained that morning, certainly last night. walking up the London Road hill, past Harry's Wines and the Worcester Sauce Factory pub.
136 London Road would greet me with silence, and the sound of the kettle boiling in the basement kitchen would set off a soporific echo. Winding up the two flights of stairs to my room, I would notice it had begun raining. Thick September rain. Lying down on my bed, the cup of tea balanced on my radiator, I would listen to the wind in the open chimney of my room, and fall, inevitably, into a deep afternoon sleep, only waking when the light was failing and twilight crept up from the river and Perry Woods and the nameless alleyways that littered the town.
This is now autumn though and not Worcester and not the decade before the last one.
Summer is everywhere.