Wednesday in early September

The protesters are still roaming around our city, throwing things, blocking roads, getting arrested. Republicans are venturing out in bigger numbers, though, and yesterday I spent an hour or so watching John McCain's daughter autograph books for a pretty large crowd.

The mornings have suddenly gotten cool; in a very Minnesota-like way we dropped from 91 degrees to 50 degrees in the span of a day. Today I needed a Polarfleece jacket on the morning stroll, and I would not have turned down mittens, had anybody offered them.

The morning glories are big and glorious -- no blue ones this year, but purple ones, and white ones, that reseeded themselves and have twined around the white picket fence and the birdbath. (And why don't the blue ones ever come back? They are the most spectacular.)

The cherry tomatoes continue to ripen, but they are developing little splits, a sure sign of a dropping temperature at night.

At work I am way behind, because of the holiday, because two reviews I commissioned didn't come in, because I spent two days last week writing a story instead of doing my usual work. Every day is a sprint.

Today I hope to have lunch with my friend Joe, who is in town covering the convention for the Globe. It will be great to see him, but it will put me even farther behind at work.

But I tell myself, next week things will be quieter. Next week the convention will be over, the protesters and Republicans and journalists (and Joe) will be gone, the short holiday week will be back to normal size, and we can all get our work done and get on with the business of moving into fall.