An early dip for the Mabon equinox, so headtorches are dug out and white-light the wires of cobweb that we normally brush unconsciously from our faces as we run. Stars too: we haven’t seen them while swimming for half a year. The swans are too sleepy at this time to put up their usual Jets v Sharks pugnacity, and just paddle softly out of our way. The water is still and velvety; we dress in dim dawn and I run home for pancakes. 

Time to find balance again. The windows clatter in their frames as the autumn wind starts up, and I’m trying to hoard enough handicrafts and uplifting media to keep me going though the darkening evenings. The usual SAD was working overtime at the start of this year for a good few months (I wasn’t even well enough to do my annual Mad Men binge-watch), so I’m trying to do all those boring things that actually make us feel better: knitting and jigsaws, short but brilliant books, as little processed sugar as I can manage, decent sleep patterns. Is it worse when those things work, or when they don’t?

I’ve wondered here before about the loss we’ve self-inflicted by sprinting away from organised religion. Of course it makes sense, when you look at the wider picture — (particularly Western) religions have caused indescribable amounts of bloodshed, destruction and suffering. And yet! What have we lost, in our hurry to show how clever we are to not fall for dogma, mantras, herd mentality, cults, and arbitrary nonsense of in-people and out-people? We’ve certainly lost group singing and group rituals, two hulking great parts of social union that crop up in every single civilisation, two things that offer comfort and structure, joy and togetherness. But! At least in our current hyper-individualist society we’ve freed ourselves from dogma, mantras, herd mentality, cults, and arbitrary nonsense of in-people and out-people, right? PHEW. I mean: PHEW. P H E W. In totally unrelated thoughts, remember that brief window in modern times when men didn’t have an excuse to publicly hate and berate women when we asked for dignity, safety, and equality, when a sizeable swathe didn’t casually drop slurs into conversation with the safe knowledge that surely no sensible, decent woman would disagree with him? Remember that? No, me neither. 

Great things: This article from the Drift on Jack Antonoff is so, so excellent. Thoughtful, intelligent, informed and with a clear argument, it’s exactly what I want to read but so often find myself reading Twitter-rants disguised as legitimate articles instead. This: “If there were a producer who fully belonged to this moment, he would need to be something like a non-brand brand, paradoxically recognizable for his ability to produce stylishly forgettable content… Ubiquitous and ignorable, critically acclaimed and terminally unhip, memeable but unshakably serious, such a figure would fully express the essence of a seemingly essenceless moment.” And this: “Get too close to Antonoff, and his sound vanishes into a series of unremarkable elements; zoom out too far, and it evanesces into generality.” Just marvellous.

This episode of 60 Songs that Explain the ‘90s is also fantastic, with host Rob Harvilla describing one old Celine Dion song as “like drinking rosé from a fire hose.” Like all great music writers, Harvilla is never snobbish about any of the music, and speaks so well about each song’s context and influence that I want to listen to everything ever recorded by every act. 

The After Party is a wonderful programme, made comforting and delightful by the presence of Sam Richardson (sadly not in Baby Show mode) but raised to heart-stopping bliss with John Cho. How is that beautiful man 51? Or rather, why do we not know better how beautiful 51-year-olds look? Anyway, full-blown limerence is occurring, even when he’s doing ridiculous dances and absurd speeches; his episode still breaks my heart and I’m here to watch your travel show, Ulysses. 

I gulped down The Devil’s Candy, Julie Salamon’s incredible account of the making of Brian De Palma’s The Bonfire of the Vanities in 1990. The access she was given to everyone from the top execs to the (predictably mistreated) interns makes this a jaw-dropping look at the decisions that turn an idea into a finished film, and one doesn’t get the sense things have improved in the industry in the last thirty years. 

Can I recommend, on a tired, dark evening, having fish finger wraps? It’s hardly rocket science — cooked fish fingers in wraps with tonnes of crunchy lettuce, and a huge spoon of quick tartare sauce (on very tired, dark evenings, I just chop gherkins and put them, several spoons of drained capers, and any onion stub lying around, finely chopped into a bowl of mayonnaise) (or even use stuff from a jar, I don’t care). It’s salty and crunchy and warm, costs little and requires almost no thought. 

One housemate has developed an unusual passion, in the form of Willem Dafoe, on discovering that he lives in Rome, keeps alpacas, and owns a rescue greyhound. I totally get it. Another housemate leaves me in the morning calling, ‘Carly Rae Jepsen and Pikachu!’, a reference to this slightly addictive xkcd comic, and I feel completely delighted with the state of the world. There is a balance to be found in all things.