I complain about the Monday gloom, from the warmth of my kitchen window. So dank, so dark, so uninviting out there.
So I go out to meet it.
It’s mild. I don’t need gloves, but a gust of wind tugs back my hood and I let it go. The rain has stopped.
Branches reach above my head, their black-brown lines deep from a long day of drizzle. A rustle to my left – and I see a squirrel’s rear scurry up a tree.
I almost snatch a falling leaf, and my hands swipe through the damp to miss some more. But my camera is lucky and catches a few, flying across a field.
A cat sits on a wet wall, and eyes me with great suspicion. I meow, her back arches, I meow and then she scarpers.
I collect my son from school, and we talk about the weather (we are British – this is what we do).
We find a leaf lying on stones, perfect with raindrops. My son thinks we should move it to a safe place, but we agree to leave it in peace.
Nearly home, and the rain sharpens sideways. A last photo of our acer and its carpet of rich red.
Then in we go and shut the door. Time to dry out and warm up with a steaming cup of tea (we are British – this is what we do).