Friday, 07:50, London
A daughter I dreamed woke me up, standing next to the bed, pointing my heavy attention at the clock, 06:30, saying, ‘you’re a bit later than usual’.
When I sit down to try and write about the weather in the mornings, I realise I’ve been holding it outside. That is where it’s happening, in the main, usually. Apparent in what the wind moves, clouds, sunlight, and rain. We’ve rarely those inside. But it’s the same air I’m breathing, attached by threads.
It’s part of what separates us from other animals. It’s why, when I see a coot on the canal, treading water head-on into a gust, I think: ‘Wow. There is no hiding for you. You are fully immersed in nature all of the time.’
There would be no outside if you lived in it. Boundaries create distance between us and the weather. I close the curtains, stopping the sun from greenhousing the living room and invite a breeze in by opening windows on both sides of the flat.
We are other to the weather, not completely part of it, but still immersed in it. Dependent on it, a source of it. We are of it, separated in compartments of air.