Fruit fly season is over. It's cold and rainy; the plums have fallen and rotted away, the late apples are still ripening. And the cross spiders that hung in the centres of their webs in every corner, feasting on red-eyed flies, have given up. Now they wander from ceilings to walls to cracks in the woodwork, hunting. I don't think they're finding much.
"Nothing here, either."
One hangs outside my kitchen window, out of the worst of the rain; her web glistens with tiny bubbles, but there are no struggling dinners. If she hangs in long enough, there may be moths.