Drops on the window. Who needs the shrill cry of an alarm clock. A deluge now awaits me outside.
At first, in bed, a reluctance to get out from the warm womb, to enter a wet and miserable daytime. Memories of the kitchen flooding last week, the drip drip drip of water from lighting sockets and that dreadful feeling that the roof will bulge, become pregnant with puddled water, and suddenly burst. Waters breaking to give birth to nothing but water. A drip becomes a torrent. A torrent becomes a flood. From the flat above, drenching the kitchen floor again. Damned mops and towels. Damned plumbers and insurance.
Calm down, calm down. That was then and this is now. The rain is outside. It’s on the window. A hypnotic tap tap tap. Let it lull you back to sleep, to calm you like a warm bath. Spring is coming. The rain is watering roots, feeding half dead tubers and bulbs, satiating the ground’s dry thirst after a long and lonely winter.
You are warm, you are dry. Today has no agenda. There is no fear needed. There is the gym, a wet walk to the powerhouse, to the usual regimes of weights, and cardio, of warming up and cooling down. Stretches and shakes. An hour, three times a week, four when it feels good. A regime. A healthy interest. A habit, a lifestyle, a life-saver.
And the writing. Not a whole book in a single wet day. But some notes, some exercises. That Business Writing Diploma that’s taking forever. Those assignments that seem so dull and insurmountable. On a wet day, amidst the dullness and the creeping bleak mist, an expanse of light and sunshine – distant worlds, far off worlds, remembered worlds, imagined worlds.
All of which are sensible things to do on a wet day. Yes, yes, all sensible, all a good use of time. If I can get out of this bed. This warm, warm, dry bed. A tempting home for the day. Other things too. Other stay at home things – a movie, a DVD, a bake (some lemons still in the box – that gin and tonic drizzle cake I’ve got the recipe for and always wanted tot try). Or into town, a wet wait at the bus stop, then a bus ride smelling damp hair and wiping the condensation from the window to watch th passing gloom. To the flicks. To shop til I drop. To brunch and to afternoon tea with cream cakes and lace tablecloths, sandwiches cut into triangle with no crusts.
Or none of this. A devil may care, break-all-the-rules, throw-caution-to-the-wind spontaneity. I could jump out and break free. Break the routine. Strip away all of my dull sleepy clothes, open the door as naked as the day I was born, embrace the world, its disappointments, its wet misery, its gloom and pessimism – and Go Dancing, Naked In The Rain.