It has rained and rained and rained. All of the dust and oil and soot and ash and dead dog gunge which has been covering the roads since January has turned into a slick.
The drivers are being careful: lights on, slow going; but there is a party going on somewhere. Strobe lights flash, drums roll. It's a rock concert! Some of the cars are high and no matter what the drivers do, they shake their booties and end up pirouetting into ditches. They lie useless there snorting and snurgling and steaming, drunks. Their drivers stand in the rain, annoyed and dripping, talking on their cell phones and gestaculating at their cars.
The traffic slows to look. It takes hours to get anywhere. The boys are drawing in the back of the van with new metal-effects pens. Trading colours. Battles and car races. While the traffic is at a standstill, I blog on my Blackberry.
We drop Sam to school for the "National Test" for his year, and Chas and Max and I drive to the studio through the floods of Woodbrook. I am trying to catch up on some work, but we have errands to run too. Chas and Max are spread out on the floor, painting stormy skies and ships at sea, chatting quietly. Asking my opinion. I sip my tea, look up from my drawing and tell them they are the most talented children that ever lived, I am the luckiest mother that ever lived. Sean calls, would I stop at the hardware and bring some screws? He is fixing stuff at home. Defrost the lamb chops, I tell him. We will be home early.
Everywhere is drizzle, and cool, and puddles.