Sunday rain is the sound of tin foil crackling on the skylight. It is rain full of curses and spits that resound all morning long. All morning long until a gale blows in and temporarily dispels it, only for it to return with a vengeance after lunch. The gale is a sudden swoosh pushed in from the sea and it picks up speed across the bog and the fields beyond to blow eastward. I mope. I mope my Sunday away. The energy spent on a sick dog has caused me to become as listless as he. I fidget around the house. Pick up a book and put it down and flick through a magazine I've been meaning to read. Sunday papers tossed on the kitchen table hold no interest, someone is talking but my ears remain shut, my head nods stupidly in agreement.
Lost day. I run a bath and fill it with salts that promise relaxation. I sit in the hot water briefly and rise to rub myself down before donning old sweat pants and a t.shirt. Nothing seems to matter. Dreams come tumbling down into ashes. There is a painter coming tomorrow to finally paint the hall. Sunburnt Saffron or Sunbrushed Saffron, whatever, I cannot recall now. After two months of waiting my head is awash with shades that blend, seep like a failed rainbow over the hill. I thought about Film Noir, daring and nice perhaps, but more suited to an apartment in New York or a sun blushed suite in LA but not here, no, not in this place where sunlight is rare and days go by without relishing its mark.
I had been asking hubby to drill some holes in the hall so I could finally hang the nomadic prints that float around the house without a home. He did. It struck me when he was done that all of the five prints have something in common. They are all of women in various poses, most of them look like they are searching for something. I like their distorted faces, the arms open and trusting, the softness mingled with unspoken regret.
In the late afternoon we take the dog for a walk down the deserted road. Up over the hill with the wet mist on our backs. We don't talk very much and our wellingtons drag along the surface of the black top. All the houses look empty and unlived in, apart from the occasional light of a TV screen. I feel like I am walking on the moon with my partner, an astronaut clad in a big suit and a mask covering his face. We walk until we cannot go any further and turn back. Its the mist that does it then. It falls on my face like a soft spray. It feels delicious and cool and invigorating. I say, my god, do you feel that, the mist, its laden with sea and mountains and I laughed out loud because I was drenched and wet and my hair was stuck to my head and it felt so good. So bloody good that it felt like the beginning of a whole new day.