Golden russets on the golden cloth, by the window that has golden curtains.
Buying apples is an optimistic gesture at this time of year. The English apples are nearly done, and a good apple is now an oversweet, tasteless thing, not too mealy in the mouth. Every other one has gone too far, and a tracery of brown lace-like rot lurks just under the skin. My compost bin fattens. Russets are a slightly better bet than Coxes, but in a few weeks I will give up entirely, and live on dried fruit until the Granny Smiths begin to trickle in from the Southern Hemisphere. Boring, utterly predictable, but at least they taste of something (and they cook quite well if you want delicate distinct slices rather than the instant puree of a Bramley).
Happy birthday Gill