To Neath this morning, taking Graham to the rail station to pick up a ticket in advance of his week’s absence starting tomorrow.
It rained. It rained all the way there, it rained while we were there, and it rained all the way back. Most uncomfortable.
“I sometimes think that Neath is trying to tell me something,” I said, stripping off my damp clothes the minute we got home.
“You may be right.”
“Nothing personal, you understand.”
“No, I know. It’s something about rain and parades, like as not.”
“Dunno about that. Rain and poets, perhaps. Never the twain shall meet.”
“What’s a twain?”
“Not sure, really. Something to do with mud, rivers, and lots of water. And a long bit of string with a weight on the end.”
“You have a really peculiar head, you do.”
“I know. Never quite sure if it’s the rain or the poems. The result is strange, anyway.”
