Shorter days. Long walks. Scrunching leaves. The only thing that can follow this is a bowl of hot crumble, the scorching soft apple of which burns the palate, to be immediately countered by soothing, cold custard. I’ve been feeling a bit like crumble of late – trying my best to keep it together but I just keep falling apart, the sour apple of my anxiety seeping through and forcing me to shut eyes tightly. All I can do is keep looking for those mouthfuls with the perfect balance of crumble and custard, and I guess the only way to do that is to flood the bowl with custard. I don’t really know what metaphor I’m going with there, but anyway, here’s a song about it:


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