Wet Saturday

Saturday January 5, 2008

I’m feeling really sour and ill-tempered today. Graham says he hasn’t noticed, which is either a credit to my restraint or a critique as to my normal mood.  I think it’s the former. He’d have told me before if it were otherwise.

I got up as usual, sat down at my desk, and regarded the dark, wet, windswept view of the street outside.  From behind the house I could hear next door’s empty dustbin bouncing around in their garden as the wind dipped and danced to play dancing in the dark games with it.

Paused for a moment, fingers in the air over the keyboard all ready to pounce, when I heard Graham cough downstairs, turn over and snuggle down for another couple of hours.

That was enough for me. I turned the computer off and toddled back down to join the fun.

Everyone in Bridgwater seems to be coughing just now except me. Graham thinks he has a low-level ‘flu type infection. I told him to think himself lucky it’s not the norovirus that the news people are trying to frighten us with.

Now I’ve woken up again I still feel sour and ill-tempered. It’s still wet outside even if there is a feeble attempt at daylight. And my fingers are poised, wordless.

Oh, to hell with it. It’s Saturday. It’s a wet Saturday. Live with it.