The World is Made of Water

When I leave the office it is raining, the way it has been raining all day: a thin steady soaking drizzle, the sort that can go on for days. As I cross the bridge to the station it seems for a moment as though it might be relenting, but it is only a moment and then it resumes, steadier than ever. The rain is seeping through my jacket, up through my shoes, turning my paper into mush. The cars inch past, blocking the junction but at least going too slowly to splash through the puddles and drench us all. I reach the station with two minutes to spare, thinking longingly already of a dry, lit, warm train, and a chance to sit down. But the platform is packed with commuters, bedraggled as wet birds. The train has been cancelled. And the one before it, by the look of things, and the one before that as well. We wait, in the rain, listening to the announcements. A train – late, already packed – finally arrives and a hundred damp commuters resignedly cram themselves on.

Outside, the dark grey sky of the afternoon merges imperceptibly into dusk. It is still raining. It seems as though it will always rain. The world is made of water.

I hate this time of the year.