Rain. Always evocative. Maybe it’s just me.
I think a lot about rain. And when it rains, I think a lot. December 2013, when I stared out of the window of my girlfriend’s childhood apartment in St Petersburg, onto the grey streets, and realised that I was finally visiting a city I’d wanted to visit for so long. Even yesterday, Sunday, as we sat in our tiny, bolted-on conservatory and heavy rain made it hard to hear each other speak.
And further back. May 2005, when I stood in the Quadrangle on my last day of School, before breaking up for A-Level study leave, and I noticed the first droplets of rain fall on the plants by the staff-room, and I was briefly overwhelmed by the sense of nostalgia, by the fact that I was now irretrievably and finally being thrust into the real world. I don’t think I felt ready.
School. Evocative indeed. Rain on the pitches when I reluctantly played hockey. Mud on house kit and sports socks. Summer rain, winter rain. I remember being rained on as I sheltered under a towel in a park in London on Hallowe’en 2001, as I’d run away from home. I soon came back, chilled and exhausted.
Brighton, November 2011. Running through driving rain to get to a venue, as we ran with guitars and merchandise, touring the ‘Film Fanatic’ EP with Bombers. Drenched, we arrived, smiled, laughed.
Rain on my parade, go on. It brings me unexpected memories. I sift through them, picking one up, turning it over and examining it with unpractised hands. Rain on my parade and I will smile at you, gratefully.