All day it has been raining, a gentle drizzle, off and on. The paths are dark with water and the grass and the earth where I’ve cleared it for meadow flowers. The cat goes out and comes back in again, announcing her displeasure. I lie on the sofa listening to the birds singing loud and the fuzzy sound of the rain and an aeroplane vibrating somewhere far off in the distance. It is strange to be doing nothing. I lie and I look at the ceiling and I see the ghosts of cobwebs strung between the tops of the lamps and everywhere else and I think about sweeping them away but I don’t. I listen to the clock ticking and the cat’s heavy breathing from the corner of the room where she is sleeping. I listen to the sound of my children coming in from school and I think about pretending to be asleep so they won’t bother me but I don’t. I think about getting up and watching Twin Peaks but I don’t. I lie there composing, thinking about words and things and how weird it is to simply do nothing at all, I am not used to it, I am always doing something. I guess I am still doing something, even if it’s lying on the sofa and listening to the rainfall and the birdsong and thinking about doing nothing at all.