weather diary
Sunday, 11:15, London
It’s rainy. A drizzly Sunday morning. Not grizzly or oppressive, just wet.
A storm dredged up sludge and silt and pollution into the canal yesterday. It’s blanched the scene, muddying the water, usually reflective and vivid, thickened to a viscosity that’s dampening its ripples.
I didn’t dare or desire to open the balcony door this morning as I usually do and draw a big gallon of air into my lungs, running vapours and volatiles over my olfactory senses into a feeling of the state of the day. Most mornings while my tea’s brewing I open the balcony door and wake my senses like this. For about one and a half inhales, I’m aware of the smells of the day; a weather report containing temperature, humidity and pollution levels, the season, and what’s drifting up and off the plants. A microcosm in a sniff and a half. Before it fades back into the background.
I hear people say it’s the one people miss most when it goes. I can feel that. It’s a constant reality received just below the level of conscious awareness, signalling to my body what’s safe and real, registering only in peaks, changes, and danger.