Feel that chill in the air? Time for some drinking in bed, I reckon.
It's comfy, you know you won't wake up on a stranger's mattress 'cos you're already sprawled on yours, there's no fights over the pool table, no awkward rejections when you lean in to pash a 21-year-old at some abattoir of the soul niteclub, no taxis to catch home.
There's pretty much no downside to drinking in bed except you ruin a lot of sheets if you're on the red wine or you fall over returning to said bed from the bathroom and bleed a lot onto your pillow cases.
Many years ago, I read Charles Bukowski's novel Factotum where he wrote: "Frankly, I was horrified by life, at what a man had to do simply in order to eat, sleep, and keep himself clothed. So I stayed in bed and drank. When you drank the world was still out there, but for the moment it didn't have you by the throat."
I didn't think much about that quote until a few years later when a girlfriend re-introduced me to the concept of drinking in bed and we lorded it up on my futon (it was the 90s) for at least 60 per cent of our three-week relationship.
A mate of mine - I'm pretty sure I've mentioned him before - is a big bed drinker (shiraz) and for this reason only buys his manchester in darker colours.
"Your navy blue sheets do tend to show up more of one unmentionable bodily fluid but at least that washes out. Rockford Basket Press does not. Or it doesn't if you leave it for four days and set the stain with your body heat."
Drinking in bed? How dissolute! How immoderate! How about you argue the point with half of Rome's emperors, swathes of European royalty and Joan Crawford, 'cos they were all experts at horizontal drinking. It's the new black, I'm telling you.
If there's a continuum of life's most self-indulgent practices, golf sits about in the middle, beaten soundly by crowd-funding your own album, heroin, then drinking in bed. The good news is it's one of those cheeky little extravagances we can all slip into our schedule.
During the recent deluge of bad publicity alcohol has attracted, I read the perplexing advice that you should "never drink spirits. At home. Alone". Seriously, where's the fun in that? I thought. Where's the bed?
Of course, horizontal boozing is much more fun when there's two or more of you, but you're never gonna lose friends if you insist on doing it by yourself.
Drinking alone's underrated. You never realise quite how drunk you are because you don't to talk to anybody to slur your words. Just switch off your phone, don't go near Twitter and you offend no-one, except the people downstairs when you fall over coming back from the bathroom.
Of course, you also wake up in the morning with your bedroom looking like a crime scene, sheets a veritable Rorschach test proffering clues to the adventures of your inebriated self.
Whose blood is that?