9

The threat of rain, the spread of heat. Katy to call, the phone switched off. My desk, my desk: Paper piled to the right, feet resting to the left. Stuff to be done, corners of the web. Click, click; click, click. A dinner party on Friday, the ill relatives Saturday. Emails read, and remaining unanswered. The end of the week near, but not yet the weekend. Adult chores, childlike moods. The whole of London, and free this Thursday night. Everything in-between, uncertain what it will become: Storms, rainbows? Sunshine, turbulence?

By lunch, a thick heat had laid across the city, like a huge duvet across a tangled bed of bodies. And that was a fleck of rain just then, falling a mile to flick across my face, like a tiny lone parachutist into an obscure stubbly field. By Monday, and one way or another, the content of those clouds will have cleared. Monday, waiting just around the corner, with new horizons and unknown skies, to sun under, to tumble through.

Katy to call, Katy to call...