It feels weird out there, bright but grey, like hot ash settling on stone. It's a storm-gathering day, all the streets hunched and hurrying and hooded. I slipped out into the drizzle to get a hot chocolate from the sandwich shop, warmed my hands on it as I carried it back to the office, more for the comfort than the heat. (It's no coincidence that "hot mug" has a "hug" wrapped around its outside.) I want to be at home with a warm drink and the crossword, but I'm doing the best I can on my own in the office: door closed, music out loud but on low. Eventually I'll have to cycle home in the dark and the rain, and I'll put it off until the building gets dark and echoey. In my waterproofs I feel like a boiler-suited B-movie alien, shambling wetly through the dark.
This isn't today's post, unless I don't get a chance to do another one, in which case I might just count it. I make the rules up as I go along, you know, and if I say it's time for a cup of tea, then it's time for a cup of tea.