For my husband, it is back to work today after the bank holiday.  We didn't do much with the weekend because, as per usual for an English bank holiday, it was wet, gusty, cold, with little hints of blue to show what might have been.

The event was rained off.  Not by the looming clouds, which threatened but didn’t open, but by the memories of previous storms, clinging to the clay.

On Friday, our local newspaper had a story plus pictures of people suffering floods in their new flats.  This was the third time that the site had been waterlogged since they moved in.  Their address?  Waterside Lane.

“They really sold this place on the river views – ‘lovely aspect over the water'.  Paid extra for it.  They didn’t mention we would get floods though.”

It is amazing how a quiet drink on a Saturday night can be transformed. 

Baying at the moon, primal, visceral, urgent, howls rose and fell as the white globe moved across the sky.  I had forgotten the football was on.

Since I have been at home most of the day after leaving work, I am amazed by how many phone calls I get like this:

“Good morning Mrs Clare.  I’m an advanced computer technician, calling to fix the problem with your computer.” “But there isn’t a problem.” “We fix it anyway.”

The nights are drawing out, but the ongoing rain and murk is making it darker than it should be.  This is a hark back to an old childhood fear of the dark.

This darkness is more than absence of sight: it’s solid enough to stifle sounds and suppress smells.  So how do I know something is watching me?

I am glad to say that this story is not all true.  Half of it is - I did spend all yesterday (and most of the previous day) cooking.  Fortunately, he liked it. 

A special night, so she spent the day cooking.  Chopping, stirring, whisking then a ton of washing-up.  He sat behind the newspaper, fork waving vaguely platewards.

Have you ever been somewhere where the conversation stops immediately you enter?  That happened to me yesterday and inspired this story.

The shop-keepers stopped dissecting their clientele on my entry.  I should do something surprising, radical, so they’ll talk about me.  Then, maybe, it’ll prove I exist.