For the past couple of weeks the weather in England has been horrible.
People bustle inside front doors,
dripping rainwater over wooden floors,
drops caught in their eyebrows,
and sodden umbrellas.
"What's it like out there?" say those inside, peering round the door edge with fear of the wintery gales biting their fingertips.
"It's just horrible" we pant, breathless as if run a marathon or been on a pilgramage.
The nation has collectiviely been heavily sighing at the thought of putting a foot outdoors.
I made the mistake of wearing pimsolls, and got completely caught out.
It bucketed it down.
My feet cold, wet. Toes numb.
My socks stuck to my soles.
There have been storms too.
I sit in bed, turning pages of Lone Wolf by Jodi Picoult, as the wind bashes against the bricks.
The sky rumbles with agression,
and the rain teams down, pelting on the ground.
I received an email from a friend who has been feeling as low as I have.
He wrote of his troubles,
" They come and go like the weather, at least the rain has, hot on its tail, the promise of sun."
I sent an email back saying what he had written was beautiful.
There is a fine line between beauty and misery, and it seems we can't have one without the other.
I hope for a rainbow.
A bit of middle ground for us all.