It's the kind of rain that doesn't have the decency to get it over with. It lingers.
A grey, gloomy drizzle clung to the red bricks, making the cobblestones in the alley slick. I watched the postman from my window. He was trying to keep a stack of circulars dry under his cape. He swore under his breath as water dripped from his cap right down his nose.
He caught me looking and gave me the two-finger salute. I raised my tea mug.
There's something about a morning like this that makes you want to stay in your boots. The kettle's been on three times already. And the kitchen smells of toasted white bread and paraffin from the little heater in the corner. My old man used to say rain was the sky clearing its throat. But the sky has nothing better to do today than make us damp.
—You're going to wear a hole in that linoleum, Mary said.
She didn't look up from her crossword.
—Sit down. The news is all the same anyway.
She was right, of course. The front page of the paper on the table was full of the usual nonsense. A minister made promises he’d forget by Tuesday. Meanwhile, a footballer looked too young to be out without his mum.
I sat back down. The tea was getting cold, but the house was quiet, save for the steady tap-tap-tap against the glass. Sometimes, that's enough.