The rain was torrential.
On the radio she was talking about water and how it had rained on her wedding day. We had no contingency plan, she said. Then she began to talk about a leaflet she’d received along with her water bill for a water charity. It reminded me that water is precious, she said.
It continued to pour.
Temperatures in London are set to be almost 30 degrees, intoned the weatherman on the radio, rain elsewhere.
We didn’t walk. I missed it. We read instead, cosy on his bed. I fell asleep and dreamt of insects – butterflies, blue-bottles, bees – cascading out of our fridge.
On the Food Programme the presenter met her ‘food-hero’. Her awe was obvious. He was self-effacing, reserved and clearly uncomfortable with the heroic status she was conferring upon him. Farming is Art, he seemed to be saying, just like making something, anything, is Art. It is the ordinary made significant.
A spider has spun a web outside my bedroom window. Every time I open or shut the window he wobbles. It takes a few seconds for him to become still again. The specks of flies I see in the web are gone by the morning.
Bartleby – the Scrivener, a short story by Herman Melville was on the radio last week. It’s melancholy still lingers. Do you know it? Bartleby had no-one, no past and no future. He was discovered to be living in the lawyer’s office where he was employed. He ended up in prison for trespass. When he died his employer found out he’d been sacked from his job working in the ‘dead-letter’ office. How apt, he said to himself, and how sad. I think about the man I heard of in Nerja. He died in a home out there. No one wanted to take responsibility for his body, his funeral. Seemingly he no one. No one to tell. No one to care. No one.
By supper time the rain had stopped. The sun shone warm again.