I woke to its fury. And the rain. My heart sinks. I need fresh air, to walk, to get it over with. And then to work. I will go out anyway, though my body longs to rest, to sleep, to stay where it is. Often it isn’t as bad as it looks from the window. The air smelt different, churned up. An odour of wet dog, the kind that they leave in cars. Slightly fetid, even warm. The wind gusted. Whirling around me, it buffeted, worried at my legs. It’s tiring work walking into it. I write in my head as I walk. I don’t want to work. I want to rest, to do something undemanding. To not create. But I can’t. Rest can only be savoured, relished when the work is done. T’was ever thus. I have chosen this. And it is a gift I cherish. Truly.
