Wet Rain

Rain is pitter pattering on the sky light.
Emmy, in disgrace, is sitting on the armchair, having crunched her way through something.
I got out of the bean bag and saw a dead, bloody corpse.
Took my glasses off, put on yellow rubber gloves. Scraped the remains into a very big plastic bin bag and dumped it in the dust bin.
The bloody stain made me feel sick. All that bloody murdering on the telly is dealable with – tomato sauce makeup – but in real life. Yukkety yukkety yuck
One of the tree surgeons brought back the tray of empty mugs. For the past two days I’ve been giving them tea and biscuits. Four mugs with milk. Today there were five. Very nice young gents. Only to discover that the gaffer had tried to talk the neighbour out of it but couldn’t make his point so an Oak Tree over 200 years old has been lopped and sawed, damaged and humiliated so that there is more light in their house. Our new neighbours are sweet, young people. But they have broken my heart, not to mention the tree.
Climbed into my little red car and drove to Tunbridge Wells Crematorium. The rain lashing down. A cliche. Parked by the chapel, then climbed back in to go to the crematorium. Lots and lots of people for a dear man who had touched our hearts.
Not much black garb, mostly normal colours. One poem and tears. ‘Starry Starry Night’ played as the coffin rolled in. Our man had jumped off Beachy Head so we had to leave out verse five of ‘Amazing grace’. Speculation as to his motives abound. The favoured one is that he had lost his sight and could not come to terms with going blind. Tragic.
Everybody has a suicide story, it’s not the kind of dinner party conversation I like. We adjourned to a pub where his baker son had made cookies and slabs of chewy cake.
It was a gentle affair. People who hadn’t seen each other for years sat with coffee and G&T’s to talk about him and honour his generosity and hidden kindness. I met a five week old baby, the daughter of an ex pupil of mine. She from a family of thespians who are all doing their stuff, including her. She’s off to New York with her Olivier nominated
performance. The nipper in tow.
As one goes out the door another one comes in.
The rain fell heavy on my car’s roof. I got home in time for the news. But to tell you the truth the political arena stinks. Self serving politicians clawing their way up the greasy pole. And yet we must vote, we must be responsible. What with the Trumpeter from the Orange Lagoon, lying his way into the history books, I’ll be glad when it’ all over.
Emmy is sitting on the armchair without a care in the world. Cheeky puss….
Theres a lot been happening, health returning, new opportunities sprouting. The old man is in Richard the Third at the Arcola. The dawter is ready to launch her video and release her first EP, move into a Hackney warehouse and invite us round for quinoa. I’m writing when I’m not planting cauliflowers, courgettes, cucumbers and garlic.
This wet rain is very welcome. The smell of the earth, the plants drinking it up. And Emmy curls up on the armchair leaving a bird or mouse family parentless. If she were a dog I could call her a bitch, but she’s an old cat who thought she was being kindly bringing me in an offering….
I was given a bunch of freesias on Sunday. They’ve all opened up. Smelling them makes my mouth water. Take that Emmy, next time bring me flowers.

1 thought on “Wet Rain”

  1. You evoke the spirit of the moment with greater beauty than many other writers. Whether its telling us about the unwelcome gift from the cat or touching on the melancholy of the desecrated oak next door, you do it all weaving a spell with your words. It makes it real.
    You continue to enthrall me with your use of words. I really do love reading what you write.

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