It has been misting on New York for days. At night the rain has fallen harder and pattered on the skylight. I have thought about the drain on the terrace and prayed for its uncloggedness - the way the deck was built allowed for no access to it - not my doing, and not good, at all. It's one of the first things you consider when making a terrace or roof garden. My landlord knows about it, and there's no more I can do but hope and watch.
It has been the the kind of rain that has bent long stems slowly, but not beaten them.
...an English rain.
Kind to strawberries.
And tomorrow it will clear, but I hope there will be more.
Rain has an introspective quality about it which makes one homesick for other weathers and inclined to think about dinners and menus.
So I am listening to Emmanuel Pahud playing Mozart's Concert for Flute and Harp, whose sheet music I have on the bookshelf in the bedroom. And thinking about menus. And cooking orecchiette and Chinese broccoli for my own dinner. And planning artichoke dip for the Frenchie's dinner, when he gets home, late, late. My flute is very old and not well. Its pads have been replaced twice and it needs to be buried with dignity. I have needed a new one for years and have not done anything about it.
Then there's a new computer (my laptop is a workhorse, and Vince marvels that it's still going, but it's FULL, so maybe we just settle for an external drive?) and a new camera to be considered...where does the flute stand in line, in terms of priorities?
I think the cat will have to start singing on the subway platform. I'd pay to hear that.