It’s one of those grey, dark, wet mornings where you can inadvertently sleep in because the bedroom remains dark for an extra two hours. That could be a problem if you have a day job, but I’m one of the more fortunate, I am supposed to be retired.
Pity then the rest of the family haven’t quite got it yet.
But, today is Sunday, and there’s no pressing requirement to get up. It’s one of those times when you are comfortable and warmly ensconced under the doona, somewhere between asleep, and in a sleepy haze.
Time to mull over the latest storyline, marshal my thoughts, write the prose in my head.
Too many storylines, and nothing to do with any of the current projects.
The rain is getting heavier, and is splashing outside; the steady waterfall of overflow from the gutters is taking away my concentration.
Rain, rain, go away …
I have two different visions.
A cold, grey day in London (is there any other sort of day in my second favourite city) waiting for a train, and seeing the woman of your dreams go past, standing in the doorway, and in that fraction of a second when your eyes meet, a connection is made.
I suspect it has fuelled many a song such as ‘The Look of Love’.
The second is on a desolate section of coastline as for north as you can go in Scotland (yes, I am a glutton for punishment), and she is standing on the cliff top gazing out to sea, hair blowing in the wind. Silent, strong, resolute.
Hang on, I think that happened further south, Cornwall in fact, and her name is Demelza. With red hair!
The rain has gone. That degree of comfortability is now gone after a gentle nudge that reminds you, you cannot stay in bed all day.
And the cat is forcefully reminding you that he needs to be fed. A cat that’s begging to get sent to Siberia on a very slow boat.
Notes hastily scribbled in a notebook for later reference.
Time to think about tending the garden…