It hasn’t rained for quite a few days. Nevertheless, I can feel it in the hot air.
I’m out in the park, chilling after the working day. The grass is cracked and yellow-brown, the leaves are rippling in the warm dry breeze. It’s cloudy, but in that muggy, stuffy sort of way. Over the valley, the skies are a dull dark grey. It won’t be long, I guess.
An ice cream van tinkles in the distance. Rusty chimes stop mid-phrase. A dog barks. It reminds me of Vivaldi’s Summer - the stillness before a cacophony of angular violins stabs like lightning off the beat. I don’t think we’ll get any of that though.
Rain would be welcome. I’m so hot I think I’d just stay out here and guzzle it in like Andy Dufresne outside Shawshank. Glug, glug, glug, freedom!
I’m not doing so well at work at the moment. I don’t feel particularly clever and I keep making silly mistakes. Unfortunately in my last job there was someone who leapt on those things in front of everybody else, and I fear it’s rather damaged me. We all make mistakes I know. Nobody’s perfect, I know. Some things are just expected though. And I still feel embarrassed when they get spotted.
A heavy spot just splashed on my leg. Pizzicato strings. Another. Dink, dink… dink. The soft cello warbles, the harpsichord pauses.
I’m going in. Turns out I’m not quite Andy Dufresne today.
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