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desperanceAll morning, the marine layer lay over the Bay like a soft damp blanket of grey, like chilly thistledown. First thing, I'd turned on the sprinkler in the yard - but "sprinkler" here is something of a misnomer. It dashes water across the windows like a wind in storm. I sat with lights on in the gloom and drank coffee and read steampunk tales and nothing could persuade my English soul that it wasn't in fact raining out there.
But I went out anyway on the bike, for I had errands; and I almost - almost - thought it too nippy for T-shirt and sandals. Almost. That's the first time this year.
But it wasn't in fact raining (it rained once in September; not at all so far in October) and it wasn't in fact too cold, and that was then and this is now. As usual, come noon the sun did its thing and burned away the marine layer, and now it is properly gorgeous out there and il faut cultiver notre jardin. I have a bed to dig over, which is a much more attractive proposition than this damn text.
In the meantime, shelve this among those other novels I shall never write:
Nobody Knows The Rubble I've Seen: the memoirs of a cryptoarchaeologist.
But I went out anyway on the bike, for I had errands; and I almost - almost - thought it too nippy for T-shirt and sandals. Almost. That's the first time this year.
But it wasn't in fact raining (it rained once in September; not at all so far in October) and it wasn't in fact too cold, and that was then and this is now. As usual, come noon the sun did its thing and burned away the marine layer, and now it is properly gorgeous out there and il faut cultiver notre jardin. I have a bed to dig over, which is a much more attractive proposition than this damn text.
In the meantime, shelve this among those other novels I shall never write:
Nobody Knows The Rubble I've Seen: the memoirs of a cryptoarchaeologist.