My yellow waterproof came back today. Its official colour is daffodil. Not neon high-vis. Not muddy mustard or half-hearted lemon. But a yellow of depth to lift me into a season whose days of shrinking light I’d usually dread.

My sister M loves Autumn. Her pale skin and poet’s eye are tuned to its jewel-leaf hues – wine red, ochre, rust. But my olive skin and heat-seeking heart crave the intensity of the Mediterranean – give me orange scarlet, hot gold, citrus lime.

So when summer fades and ML my partner, steers me into outdoor shops for ‘something practical’, I usually resist, picturing multiple items of ugliness sitting under awful lighting, waiting to sap the life out of me. (Of course for a spare £500 you could shop like the rich who, in bright, well-cut tech-gear, get to enjoy being warm, dry and stylish. The rest of us must compromise.)

But this year, ML, a relentless researcher and problem-solver, located this jacket for me. I too could be both cosy and shiny. And without a stupid price tag. She just knew I would love it. And I did! No more “Fuck, it’s raining a-fucking-gain, bloody Wales,” and instead “Yay, rain, I can wear my daffodil jacket!”

However, as my dyspraxic fingers tend to tug at things, before long, I broke the zip. And the manufacturer didn’t want to repair it. Too much hassle. And they didn’t have the right zip. Wouldn’t we rather just have the money back? Buy a new one?

But that would be such a waste we thought, and anyway they no longer produced this colour. And this colour was everything. We didn’t want a new one. We wanted this one repaired.

ML pursued the cause – emails, phone calls, negotiation – She is indefatigable like that and I am very grateful. The thought of even one step of that admin…

Eventually they agreed to locate a matching zip and repair my jacket. But they said it might be months; the season would be over by the time it came back.

Meanwhile the autumn rain fell harder and longer as I ploughed on with reducing my Citalopram after a doctor had told me that ten years’ use and turning sixty was not a good combination.

Then, this afternoon, already night with the clocks gone back, there was a knock at the door. I was doing my bedrest so ML ran down and opened it. A courier handed over a squishy package.

She brought it up to me and we tore it open together. There it was: My daffodil yellow jacket.

And it just happened to be the first day I had dared to look at this blog without lamenting the unwritten months. The first time in ages my nervous system had cleared enough to load me with a shot of clarity and energy.

My jacket is back, here I come.