thunder bangs across the sky and the lightning slashes the clouds. All day, the hands of the wind have ruffled the trees like the affectionate hands of an uncle. Paper and leaves have bounced along roads, against cars and bumped as change has flowed, like a river, into London. The weather is changing, and like a dog, newly caught by a lingering smell, I, too, stand and sniff the wind.
The day began gray like a dirty sheepskin held over the city. As the clouds drew away, the sun briefly shone, just to remind us that it was daylight before the clouds sunk again. The air, damp, humid, heavy loitered like a teenager, between the buildings ready to be swept away by the rain's broom.
London sulks in its room like a petulant child. We hole up in our houses beseiged by the storm, waiting to put down the drawbridge into that fresh, clean, washed world.