Not playing

Drumming, like the fingers of a dozen teenagers all bored in the same instant interrupts my reverie. The rain has come; the washing is on the line.

I rush, bare footed, up the path already polkadotted with drops, stepping over a slick steel drain cover. In the sky a small grumpy cloud eclipses the garden. I begin to gather in the near-dry laundry, pushing pegs (necessitated by the breezy conditions) into my pockets. The rain stops.

I glare at the cloud; it glowers back. I tentatively start to spread out the sheet I was pulling on and replace the pegs. A few drops fall, then a few more. I gather half the items from the line and the rain ceases, the small cloud is crawling past.

Uncertain, I return indoors with the items that seemed driest, although they still need airing. The path is wetter than the garden, but the sky is brightening. After ten minutes and no further rain, I restore the clothes to the line and find something else to do.

The forecast for the day says showers will die out towards the evening, so I expect to get my laundry dry eventually. I return to my office and my earlier thoughts. From time to time a half dozen teenagers set to with the fingers again, but I'm not playing.