At some point in the afternoon the weather changed. The sky has turned that oppressive yellowish-grey, darker in one direction than the other, and there’s a sense of something ominous and looming. A light wind blows, but even that is subdued, suppressed, suspended. Waiting for whatever is to come. I love this weather. There’s an anticipation, a sense of waiting for something to happen. It makes me think about the colour grey. Grey has a bad reputation, it is perceived as something uniform and bland and yet the sky is cobalt in one direction, silver in another and every gradation in between. Here and there is a hint of blue, and in some places a white patch and where the sun glints through the thin cloud it is so glaring I cannot distinguish a colour at all. I do not think there will be a storm, the heat is too tempered and the cloud cover, whilst extensive, is not heavy enough for that. But the promise is there. I smell rain in the air, a hint of that hot, damp tarmac smell that comes with rain after a period of warmth and it is one of the few instances where the synthetic, the manufactured, enhances rather than detracts from what nature gifts to us. I hope it will rain. It will be good for the grass and the flowers, good for our diminishing reservoirs, but more than anything else it is wild and dramatic, uncontrollable, a welcome change from these days of balm and empty skies.