The cold is really getting into my bones and apparently it is gonna get colder but drier. Couldn’t really be any wetter. It’s getting crazy now. I saw some old guy building a boat out of gopher wood.
I’m by the sea again, in Brighton this time. Perhaps this endless wash has been made more noticeable by me being littoral for the last month and more. St Helier feels like it’s inland but it’s right by the edge. Redwoods would grow tall in the part of Devon where I stayed, feeding as they do on coastal spray. Brighton and I’m looking at the swell as I write, and the mist was down so hard this afternoon I couldn’t even see the lights of the wind farm.
Everything is sodden. When I gave Lou her presents just now the packaging was fucked on them all. Damp fudge boxes. A bit of porcelain that had been munged for long enough that Tessy was lingering over the sniffs.
Outside the soil can’t take the wet at the rate it is coming down. I bet bulbs are getting washed out and rotted. Too much rain, too quick. There’ll still be a hosepipe ban in June, but for now we live in a lake.
We went to Ditchling briefly to check in on Lou’s workshop. She’s been away, so just making sure a branch hadn’t hit the window or something. The roads round that way were barely passable. Walls of water being thrown up by cars, fjords in the roads. Impossible for cyclists, lethal for motorbikes and barely possible for Bergman and he’s a big boy.
Here inside and in bed as I write it is comfortable and comforting hearing the roar of the wind and the crashing of the waves. It’ll lull us to sleep.
AlBarclay 