stormy sunday

Sitting inside, curled up on the sofa with an Ian Rankin and a beautiful storm raging outside is a fabulous way to end what has been a charmingly quiet weekend. The rain is lashing down in torrents against the window panes, splashing in puddles that passing cars spray back up as they speed past. The cats occasionally wander in, look out of the window in a mixture of curiosity and fear before heading out of the room again to hide upstairs.

It is wonderfully autumnal to sit here, hair still damp from the bath, curled up with a mountain of cushions behind me and a book in hand. The season of extraordinary weather is upon us, with a tornado hitting Brighton beach first thing this morning, followed by the current thunder pounding across the sky. Its a glorious feeling, to be inside and cosy looking out on such weather. I get caught up counting the seconds between lightening and thunder bolt, wondering how far away the storm is, whether its coming closer or further away. And intermingled are the seemingly continuous sirens. Perhaps my memory plays tricks on me, but I remember there being sirens throughout every storm.

The only thing missing from this glorious evening is an open fire, although it's hardly cold enough for one. I would love to hear the crackling and the spit of sap, watch the fire flicker in the corner of my eye whilst waiting for the next strike. It is no bother though, I have a beer at hand and a large, warm, cosy, jumper; book at hand and a happy glint in my eye. Roll on thunder bolts, I say, and smile at each one.