Suppose I could get one of those black dalek-type composting bins, but they're so ugly, and don't really seem to work. Not that I ever got any out of the heap either, come to that, but it was home to baby hedgehogs and produced blackberries (and the occasional unexpected potato) and was therefore cherished.
There is something satisfying about gardening at this time of year though. Pulling armfuls of dried goosegrass out of the hedge like strands of (less terrifying) cobweb, or ropes of bindweed, hand over hand like I'm pulling up an anchor, or a bucket from a well. Uncovering the crumbling brick edges that mark the changes in level I've been falling over all summer while they've been covered in grass.
The cats keep me company; one takes up residence on the wooden table and looks disapproving at the noise of children in the road. The second takes one of the seats, looking up expectantly as if waiting to be served cocktails.
Sleepy wasps wander drunkenly through the bushes, enjoying one of the only decent days we've had all season. Ladybirds seem to be everywhere, when I haven't seen a single one all year.
Finally: two bags, tied and straining, stuffed with weeds and hard labour. Time to sit back with a glass of wine and appreciate, and try to avoid leaping up every few seconds to fidget with errant twigs.