Falling Rain
I woke at 6am to the steady rhythm of rain on the bedroom window, and remembered leaving washing on the line last night. For a few moments I thought about dashing out into the rain in my underwear to get the washing in. It turns out warm bedclothes are really quite persuasive at 6am.
It stopped raining after perhaps an hour. The world outside has the clean, clear feeling that follows a storm – where the oppressive pollen filled air of the last few days has been washed away – at least for the moment. Birdsong fills the garden, with blackbirds winning the battle of “who can sing the loudest”. The kites have not arrived yet – no doubt later in the day they will circle high above and echo their signature bird-of-prey screeches across the neighbourhood.
I'm listening to a “Sunday Morning Jazz” playlist on Spotify while writing – mostly out of laziness. I couldn't think what to choose, so just typed “Sunday morning” into the search box, and chose the first playlist.
The dregs of the first coffee of the day are sitting in-between my arms as I type – whispering “don't you think you should re-fill me?”. Soon.
It's been a quiet week. I'm back working full time, and knee deep in a project. Busy makes the hours disappear, which I suppose is welcome. Having tasted furlough for a part of the last few weeks, I'm not sure I'm much of a fan. Ideas of filling furlough days with worthy activities didn't happen – instead I carried on the endless rounds of chores, and spent far too much time jumping down internet rabbit holes. I did get out running though.
I should be running today. Another “Couch to 5K” run. I can't be bothered. I know my fitness is getting there, so find myself questioning the entire programme. The next run may divert spectacularly, and return to the old routine of picking favourite routes around town in the early morning hours. There's something about running along the high-street early in the morning as deliveries are made, and shops setup for the day ahead. It reminds me of countless morning-after movie scenes in big cities.
Remember the scene at the end of “As Good as it Gets” where Jack Nicholson and Helen Hunt walk to the bakery just as they are opening ?
Years ago – before children – we visited Paris for a long weekend, and I ran each morning around the park below the Eiffel Tower. The park was invariably filled with morning mist, uncovering sounds before sights. I encountered people of all shapes and sizes doing the same – making their way steadily back and forth – lost in though, or drinking in the street corners, footpaths, and strangers along the way. Fresh bread and coffee never tasted as good again.
I think it's time to make another coffee.