home and dry

Today is a day when it’s good to be home and dry. I can hear the rain lashing against the windows, watch the drops run down, glistening in the streetlight and all the while hear the gentle tick of the radiators warming up. Zack, who is a bear of much sense, is nestled on a cushion next to me, occasionally opening his eyes to give me a look before stretching out a paw and letting his chin fall back into place.

I have found myself thinking more often of living in the countryside over the past few weeks. This evening is one I can imagine being perfectly spent in front of an open fire, watching the flames crackle and snap whilst knowing full well that the downpours continue on the other side of the walls. The church bells I can hear ringing from St Peters I imagine are from a village church, nestled between yew hedges with a graveyard full of stones bearing barely legible epitaphs.

It is fortunate that I have nothing planned for the evening but to cook lasagne and curl up on the middle of my sofa, cushions and blankets and bears at the ready with an Agatha Christie or P D James and nothing to interrupt but Mr Zack’s slow purr. I have prescribed this night of self-indulgence to help ease the melancholy that has slipped over me for the past week or so. I shall refuse to let the grey clouds past the windows, instead basking in the soft light and tempting smells of browning mince and garlic.