Wednesday, June 01, 2011

An honour, roses and rain.

1. Her three-week old baby makes an ominous rumbling. We wait the prudent quarter of an hour, and then they go up to our bathroom. "That was my first one away from home," she says afterwards. I feel oddly honoured, and I'm glad the bathroom was tidy. Tidyish.

2. My mother brings a bunch of the blowsy, scented roses that usually mark my birthday towards the end of June. They are early this year -- but none the less welcome.

3. I can never remember the word for it, but the smell of rain on a hot and previously dry day. I like the pricks of cold on my skin; and the splots and pits on the dust. And I like the hiss and the sudden movement of the air; and of people collecting themselves from all corners of the park.