I quite like rainy Sundays, especially this summer. That’s because if the weather is lovely, or even just dry and cool, I look out at the garden and wish I were out there tidying up – or, more realistically, that I had already spent some time tidying up over the past few months, before the whole thing turned into a miniature rain-forest but without the parrots.
In the conservatory
I did manage to get out there one evening last week – the evening of the one day when we had the heatwave here that others have had for a good bit longer, and the temperature in the car on the way home was about 27 degrees C, with the steering wheel very nearly too hot to handle. If it hadn’t been for a residual fear that the wing-mirror spider of last year was about to re-appear, I would have had the windows open and the jolly sound of Ride of the Valkyries or the Jurassic Park theme blasting out everywhere. But I really think I will have to give in and pay someone to hack away at the bushes this year. It does go against the grain, not because they won’t be as good at it as I am, but because I do like doing it myself (when I have two legs that work properly, which I hope will be the case again one day).
Anyway, when it’s raining I don’t feel at all guilty about spending a whole day writing around 1,000 words of my latest novel and in between times – because writing 1,000 words takes up a laughably small proportion of the day – binge-reading on my Kindle and either arguing with people on social media, re-tweeting tweets about cats or fine-tuning my family tree.