Halloween is by far my most favorite time of year. I simply adore costumes and the seasonal tipping point in weather that once again allows serious fur into the wardrobe.  The leaves still clinging to the trees are at their most dramatic, acidic hues, in the final encore of their swan song, as fog creeps around, veiling things in no particular order to try and confuse the passerby. The air even smells different. Scents of moss, nuts, smoke and perfume are so much sharper and seemingly truer as they hover, slightly chilled in the breeze. It is in short, dramatic.  So much more mysterious than the obvious hedonism and sweat of summer, or fluffy, faux merriment of deep winter.
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Generally I am a pacifist. Despite a notably bohemian upbringing, there is no use denying the solid foundations of diplomacy underpinning it. As much as my mother’s artistic waywardness inspires, there is a distinct air of rebellion about it. Especially when one considers she spent most of her life under the spotlight that accompanies belonging to an ambassadorial family. That is to say, rooted in the golden age of real diplomacy which ended in the 70s, not the whatever diplomacy that exists today. Though there are a few exceptions today, generally no one has any manners, complemented by a dubious education. Diplomatic number plates seem to be handed out like perfume samples. Today’s ambassadors make one wonder just how many villages worldwide must be listing a missing person on findyourvillageidiot.com.
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