372. Rainy days

 I fell asleep to the sound of rain and woke up to the sound of rain. I went downstairs to the sound of rain and ate breakfast to the sound of rain. The sound of tropical rain, of heavens pouring out all the water they had jealousy been storing up there in oddly shaped containers.

I looked out of the French windows into the garden. It was all grey and dull but daylight was slowly turning the wet grass into luminous green, the tiles of the patio into glistening pewter grey and the flagstones of the path shone like pools of water under moonlight. It was beautiful. All the summer months dust had been washed off all surfaces. The dog was next to me, looking out too and whimpering to himself. 

It was only Baby and me in the house (my husband had decided to join in on the family exodus and was off to Northern Scotland). Baby was out - again - last night and came home so late she would be sleeping till lunchtime. I really would have to take a serious grip on her. 

I put on the coat that my son had left behind. No longer fluffy but with a hood still attached to it, I liked the fact that it was far too big for me. I really wanted one of these dressing-gowns rugby players wear when they come off the pitch to let their replacements on. As big as the tartan cloaks but with a waterproof outside and a warm fluffy inside. For Christmas, I said. Dreaming of such a coat I took my market trolley and my umbrella and headed off into the storm. 

As I was walking up the street to the market square I noticed bits of  shattered roof tiles on the pavements, and bits of rubble too. Maybe I should have worn one of the bicycle helmets that hang unused in our corridor.

Gutters were overflowing everywhere and cascades of water falling noisily on my umbrella. Puddles were swelling up under my eyes, puddles between the cobbles on the street and puddles on the pavement. Splash splash splash. My boots - and my socks and my feet - were soaking wet already. As I got closer to the market square I could see other people like me: single persons armed with a brolly and a trolley, heads down, umbrellas held ahead of them as shields, charging up against the elements. Evidently this morning's outing was a chore: a one person per family chore, one volunteering bravely to collect the food for the week. We nodded and said our hellos, aware of the need to stand together as we faced the storm, alone.

When I got to my favourite stall there was a small crowd under the awning, all of them standing close together hugging paper cups of steaming coffee. I got what I needed from just two stands, one on front and one behind me, and headed back home. No strolling around, no selecting the reddest peppers, the plumpest aubergines or the crispiest celeriac stems. Instead I filled my trolley with dripping wet lemons, muddy potatoes, soaking leeks and bright orange carrots washed clean from the drip drip drip coming down from the awning above. The paper bags were useless, they disintegrated the second the items were popped in there. The rain was pitter-pattering so loudly we couldn't hear each other.

'FIVE.' I screamed, pointing at the artichokes.

By the time I headed the over way across the square my jeans were wet up to the knees, the colour of my shoes had changed and my son's coat was weighing on my shoulders. Thankfully it was a short walk home. When I got in the dog looked at me with a look that said: 'You're pathetic, I told you not to go out, silly you' and went back to his rug.