Sunday

For whom the bell tolled, it must have struck seven. The cathedral spire glistening in whatever little the sun had to offer. The dark vicious bulbs of cumulo-nimbus clouds would be there as usual; standing sentry to another chilly dull morning. Sheets of overnight rain would have swept the roads clean like a newly swept floor. And the wind. Like a prankster let loose in a candy store, like a lone tusker gone astray, the winds would be lashing at every sign and post. Leaves stretched to hold onto their twigs dear. Every muscle and sinew pierced as though by a thousand needles. Am I not glad I am not in the midst of it. This may be a figment of my imagination or may very well be true. But snuggling into my 10.5 tog duvet, there’s no way I am looking out of the window for confirmation. It’s Sunday.