The rain craters the canal, turns it into a fluid lunar
landscape. Boats are polished by the downpour. Metal made mirror, reflecting
the boiling sky. Floating spills of diesel split the spectrum, glide colour
across troubled water.
Inclemency empties the
Three
Bridge Kingdom.
Little
Venice does not attract
tourists when the wind bullies tarpaulin and cold droplets explode hissing on
the hot glass of towpath lights. In weather like this, the patch returns to
those who are moored here. Passing traffic restricted to the demented,
determined dog walkers and the odd angler addicted to trying to land the one
big catch.
We are promised a week of rain. A week of being confined to
quarters, listening to the tattoo water striking window. Cabin time. Writing
time.
Having just finished the
JFK book and the update to
Global Gangland, it is time to create new projects. Matt Adams and I both want to do a
Doctor Who book before we splutter out, but the gravity of ghosts is also
pulling me. There is an abandoned story, a temporal flicker, that walks in both
London and
Brighton.
When injury and weather keeps you inside, it is time to scratch paper.
