Praying For Rain

The local church clock chimes four times but I’m not sure if that awoke me or whether it was another session of nocturnal machinations from our neighbours. Whatever, the women next door cuts things short by telling someone to ‘get out’ and to ‘mind their elbows’, which may have been one of her dogs or her husband, who knows but it all goes quiet and I roll over to look at L, who tonight is wide awake and looking straight back at me.

L seems fine after her stint in the murky waters of Windermere yesterday, no aches, no side effects and no outbreaks of algae. We bump into a guy at the breakfast van who is swimming today, in less than 90 minutes. He’s munching on his bacon cob and musing when to leave. Err, in view of the park and walk system, I’d say at least half an hour ago. It would be interesting to know if he made it.

The weather is glorious again, ideal for fell walking but we know that if we do that we’ll probably nod off on the M6 so we go and watch some more of the swimming instead. Then we have Sunday lunch before heading home.

Once home, we do a damage assessment. Son takes us outside and points up to the roof. OMG, now I’m worried. Has somebody reproduced the semi-pornographic path etchings of last time on our roof? Thankfully not. Son points to a trail of vomit up there. It’s dark so I can’t really see if they’ve tried to write their name or something worse. I’m not sure if he’s pointing this out apologetically or proudly. We go back inside, to pray for rain.