“Cabin fever!” said my Mum on the phone.
“That’s the word!” I replied. I’d been looking for the phrase. You know the thing where you’re staring at the walls like you want to punch holes in them just to let the sunlight in. I’d started some some thundery lines of poetry about it earlier but had quickly concluded it wasn’t my style.
Still three days to go. I’ve yet to rip the plaster off or pull in the roof tiles.
I have been out in the garden though. Sammy and I did laps between the unkempt grass and the wild flowers - me clockwise, her anti - both masked, in case we accidentally got close to the neighbours. It felt a bit like I should be letting handfuls of dirt trickle out of the bottom of my trousers into the prison yard.
I finished my block map of Africa. It'll go alongside my 'history of kings and queens' in my big spreadsheet of things to learn. There are a lot of things on that list - and it's got longer since I've been married.
The weather's changed today. Cloud overhead and a cold shiver in the air, and, in a very June-like move for the UK, it's started raining.
It's that silent rain. I really like it. It almost just hangs there in the air like a mist, and it's so quiet you can't tell whether the leaves are rustling or the tiniest droplets of water are brushing the world they're falling onto. It shimmers too - like a fine silk, or a thin layer of silver between you and the trees.
Then the drains start to sing and the leaves droop heavy with the weight of the rain. It's very calming to listen to. A wood pigeon might coo, and when it's passed, that earthy smell fills the air as the birds sing happily from the sopping trees.
I guess it's the little things that make cabin fever a bit easier to deal with.
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