Night time’s better than the day time

These past couple of days I’ve had to cycle home in the dark, as clocks have gone back and the sun now sets before anyone even thinks about the journey home. Everything below the tree-fringed horizon is almost pitch black for most of the journey, but there’s a kind of lonely enjoyment in much of it, especially the bits from Ramsden to Witney town centre where I hardly see a soul and can sometimes hear the animals in the fields. Occasionally, though, it’s fucking terrifying.

Yesterday it began to rain as I put one foot on my bike pedal. By the time I got down the hill it was belting down. Just after Hailey I pulled into a garage, the brightest light I had seen all the way home, and—puzzled as I was by an especially squelchy feeling in my feet—took my shoes off. Water poured out of them: I hadn’t realised in the dark that the road through Hailey looked so very shiny because it was mostly flooded.

I can deal with the dark, beating it back with bright lights and fluorescent clothing as if it were an adversary. But deep down, I’m hoping it’ll be fine and dry until the feast of St Dismas, when the Good Thief himself does the decent thing and gives us our evenings back.

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