Bonfire air

Forget the madeleine; porridge is my prepubescent Proustian prompt. Wallpaper paste thick, throat-toastingly hot, with a cowpat crust, a blob of soft brown sugar and your initials applied Pollock-style in glossy golden syrup. Autumn; new term; scratchy tights; porridge. Leaves to leap in, conkers to crack.

'Fall' is a child's season, and whatever the fash rags would have us believe, this is no time to be trussed in a tailored skirt suit with Veronica Lake waves and brogue shoe-boots.

So. Forget grown up garmentry. Pull on a Galliano Alice-in-Wonderland crimson dress, Eley Kishimoto chevron knee-socks and a giant Giles scarf, in Prada's appropriately Keatsian mellow and fruitful off-hues of rust and plum and mould.

Forget being a crusty consumer at the Frieze Art Fair; be a childish creator at the new, free National Gallery Family Sundays with hands-on arts workshops and magic carpet storytelling.

Forget the Wyndham's sombre Shadowlands; book for Michael Morpurgo's War Horse at the National, which should be as spectacular and moving as last winter's Coram Boy.

Forget the gritty, corporate thriller Michael Clayton and go and see the genuine, joyful Ratatouille (of course the critics hate it. It mocketh them. But I can't be the only one to find Anton Ego utterly attractive).

And if you're worried about childhood obesity, forget madeleines, and go for porridge. It's low GI, and high jinks.