Chinese people have completely flexible yardstick for the change of seasons. "Oh, autumn begins at the mid-autumn festival." And then, "Well, the real start of autumn is after the first rain following the mid-autumn festival". And finally, "You'll know it's really autumn when a ripping, Siberian wind careens down the street and the cold makes your nuts drop off and shatter."

That hasn't happened to me yet this year, but it's only October. Faced with this lack of meteorological precision, I have decided to set my own indicator for the beginning of autumn. Through the eons, man has always been able to read natural signs to interpret the change of seasons. Leaves change color; grains ripen; bird plumage changes and the great flocks head for their wintering grounds. I, being acutely atuned to nature, am also able to interpret certain of these signs to predict the change in seasons.

Chief among these signs is women's fashions. That's why I now date the beginning of Beijing's autumn from when local girls start wearing tall boots. Beijing's summer is too hot for boots. Women would have to dump the sweat out every ten minutes and that would destroy the flattering effect and raise salt levels in the aquifer, thus eroding the quality of the refreshing tap water for which Beijing is so justly renowned around the world.

And coming from years in Singapore, a steaming sweatbox of a country in which even female parliamentarians and corporate executives go to work in short-shorts, tank tops and flip-flop sandals, boots always catch my attention. Perhaps this is because I am a sexist pig. Or, possibly, it's simply a nearly inevitable consequence of having a Y chromosome. It turns out, if you check in genetics textbooks, that the "Y" actually stands for, "Yow! Look at the boots!"

Along with the boots come the stockings and the plaid skirts. I am a total slut for this look, which has hypnotic powers that render me dangerously vulnerable to suggestion. The other day I followed a girl who was dressed like this out of the Da Wang Lu subway station and overshot my own apartment building by ten minutes. If a woman dressed like this were to tell me to leap onto the subway tracks in front an oncoming train, I would immediately comply. My wife, who is no slouch in the looks department, has figured this out. That's why, during this time of year, I sometimes come home to find my wife, in boots, stockings and short, plaid skirt, arranged lusciously on the couch.

"Come here," she will purr.
"Yes mistress," I will answer as I compelled toward the couch as though by some gentle but irresistable force.
"Honey," she will sigh as she runs a finger under my jaw and up to the bliss spot behind my ear, "can you change the filter paper in the stove hood?"

And that's why Imagethief always looks forward to a Beijing autumn. Unfortunately, soon the winter will come, and that will bring on the "poofy sausage jackets", as I think of the ankle-length down overcoats popular among Beijing women. These obscure all femine lines and make Beijing look like a city of giant, windblown, upright caterpillars. One more reason why they sweet kiss of Beijing's autumn is just a tease before the bitter, four-month bitch-slap of winter