Memory

There is something about the way that the rain is running off of the roof onto the tiles around my house. It reminds me of England. Of dank days in winter when the insistent rain overflowed from the blocked gutters and dropped onto the sodden ground below; splodging into the mud, soaking the ground around the fuschia so that it grew stronger every year with beautiful purple and pink bells. Days when you do not want the TV to rudely barge into the room but want to be cocooned by the words spiralling out of a book. When red wine is the only drink to have. When getting dressed isn’t required. When only a warm deep bath will do, none of this showering malarkey. Sinking down into the warm water, bubbles around your ears, watching the condensation race with the rain drops on either side of the window pane. Warm, content, quiet.