Downpour

Wednesday 25th August

Day 126

I’m greeted by the smell of perfumed plums and fading sweet peas when I come home this evening. And drying bed sheets on the radiators. I carry a bowl of plum stones, bits of bad flesh and their resident grubs, old tea bags, discarded lettuce leaves and potato peelings, down to the bottom of the garden where the compost bin lives. I pass the two bird baths full to the brim with rainwater, and avoid stepping on several musty apples wearing patchy coats of brown bubbling mould.

No sound of children playing in next door’s garden. I duck under long waving branches straddling the path, a few dripping loganberries clinging to the ends like painted finger nails. When I lift the lid of the compost bin the huddle of brindling worms sheltering under the rim, shiver and slip to the ground with a soft plop.

The end of summer whispering in the wings. At least this downpour today only flooded our lawn. It didn’t steal away my home or my crops or my loved ones. It’s just chance - not my turn to live in Pakistan this time round. For which I feel deeply grateful.