It’s raining again, the way it almost always is when I am inspired to write. If it’s not the rain, it’s a glass of Rioja, or a hazy evening spent nursing a bottle of whisky.
The rain falls seamlessly, blending into the day with ease. The earth smells ripe; plump with the promise of new life and I inhale deeply as I stand on the doorstep waiting for the dog.
I watch the hens outside; pathetic looking creatures when wet, devoid of their usual character and excited chatter. They are bedraggled and forlorn, but a joy to watch nonetheless.
In an effort to spend more 1:1 time with the boys, we decided to let each of them pick a parent and pick an activity. This morning, therefore, brought a bike ride to the park with my youngest before the rain set in. It was my first time on a bike for well over a decade. For a while, I wondered if I could actually remember how to ride. It turns out I can, albeit in the fashion of a slightly wobbly 5-year-old who’s riding without stabilisers for the first time. My middle son picked the BMX track with Dad this afternoon and he returned home splashed with mud from head to foot and the most enormous smile on his face.
Tomorrow I am heading swimming with my eldest. Right now, I’m sitting drinking green tea underneath an open window. There’s something so comforting about the rain, and there is no place else I would rather be right now.