Yesterday morning was unsettled until about the time when I had to make the decision over whether to cycle or succumb to the temptation of using the moped. At that point, the sky seemed to blink its eyes clear of rain, and there was if not a hint of sun then a golden piping developing on the clouds. So I took to my bike.
I’m so glad I did: the journey in was the nicest I’ve made these past two or three months. The sun was low and golden, and all the fields caught it, turning sort of party-coloured with bright, fizzy golds and browns. There was barely any traffic, and the temperature was such that I could cycle with just a T-shirt and jeans on, but not get too hot.
When I got to work I realised that, while buzzing merrily over hill and dale in the manner of someone out of a cheery adaptation starring Helena Bonham-Carter, the state of the roads following this morning’s downpour meant that the back of my T-shirt was covered in shit. Literally: horseshit, I think. You can probably draw some sort of allegory from all this. But it was all compensated for as I looked to the east, to the sky beyond Oxford’s skies, and saw the storm all stacked up and gigantic as it headed off to do its deeds on Kent, like Radio 4 said it would.