Water cycle

It's raining outside at the moment, a stubbornly quiet, effortlessly falling rain which reminds me of how it used to rain for hours on end in Liverpool and I would sit by the window and watch it tumble down, hypnotised by the monotony and the sound and the way it would change the world right before my eyes.

I remember one particular evening, round about this time last year, when I came back from an absolutely horrendous day at work spent in one giant non-stop meeting, and after having tea I sat on the sofa in the living room, opened all the windows and just stared at a downpour that seemed to last forever. Water splashed in onto the floor and all up the walls but there was something cleansing and theraputic about allowing it just do what it want and for me to half-lie there and let it.

This rain didn't give a fuck about my day or anybody else's. The noise it made as it carried on falling, hour upon hour, almost helped to numb me from all the ludicrous business to which I was having to devote so much of my waking day (this was when I was at a particularly low ebb, having just failed a series of job interviews).

It was an experience that stayed with me for a long time. I hadn't seen it rain that heavily in the middle of summer for ages. What I wouldn't give to see even half such a downpour now, here in this acrid, parched, dust and straw-filled city. The rain would remind me of other, older, times and places. The rain would help sing me to sleep.