I’d spent the last few weeks staring at the BBQ; the lid of which was still very much closed. The sun had been out but the desire to stand next to a flaming pit of coals whilst being incinerated by the fiery heart of our galaxy hadn’t really set me alight. I’d began to assess the cost of the cream coloured kettle grill against the times I’d actually cooked on it since purchased.
The last few Summers had been cancelled, what with all the rain and hose pipe bans, so if my maths was anything to go by (and it generally wasn’t) then each dinner I’d cooked on the damn thing was currently costing an average of £42.37 a pop.
I’d spent the last few minutes staring through the window; the curtains very much open. My mind snapped back from the BBQ as lightning illuminated the night sky. The puddles forming in the flooded gutter bouncing the light around the street like an elaborate wet mirror-ball.
“1 potato, 2 potatoes, 3 potatoes…” I whispered as I waited for the rumble of thunder. “7 potatoes, 8 pota…” The deep roar ripped through the air as car alarms wailed, dogs began barking and the rain lashed down ferociously.
Curtains twitched across the road. I waved as Doris at number 16 watched the storm with me. Sharing in this moment of natural magnificence from behind separate glass. Staring, wide-eyed at… me.
It was in that moment I remembered I always slept as naked as the day I was born.
(thanks @vicmaude for the fantastic photo!)
