I write in my small London apartment, listening to the gentle wind. I wonder about the rain, has it stopped? I have quandaries with the rain. It makes London dreary, adds gloomy layers and doesn’t wash the dirt away, merely recycles it. But sometimes it comes with stealth to refresh, sometimes it comes with force to scour us clean.
Today a woman in the queue to buy stamps. On the phone for the whole time as we edged forward. Many people look at me, the woman in the wheelchair, the disabled person. I wonder about their secret labels for me and speculate at how wrong they will be. Because my life is a flower of many possibilities unfurling, of secret journeys and hidden lovers.
Outside, by the fragile winter trees, I notice the rain is now scarcely a mist on my face.