Window

The jam grinds us to a halt.  Something to do with the rain, I suspect.  Everything is to do with the rain these days.  It’s like the oceans have forgotten their rightful place and descended on rural England for a holiday. 

Water is coming down in sheets; not fine Egyptian cotton ones but bobbley flannelette that’s faded and worn from over washing.  Someone’s doing a hell of a lot of laundry and we’re on an endless rinse.  An invisible pixie is pouring a bottomless pail over my windscreen.  His countless siblings stand over every vehicle for miles around.  Including the inconspicuous Peugeot in the inside lane.

There’s a middle-aged Asian couple in the car.  She is resplendent in a genuinely beautiful sari that defies every colour wheel rule.  She oozes out of a seat that is far too small for her and the seatbelt slices into her like a rubber band.  She is also furious.  I cannot hear the words for the pelting rain but she’s really not happy.  Her face is so contorted with rage that her eyes have disappeared and her mouth assumes the preposterous proportions of a scooped out water melon.  Even from here I can see she’s had her tonsils removed.   

Her companion, a forty-something man who resembles a malnourished starling, simply stares ahead.  He is untroubled.  I wonder if he is deaf.  Or dead.  But he blinks which puts my mind at rest.  Something else strikes me.  His window is wound right down.  Right down. 

Now, other vehicles, despite the deluge, have windows slightly down.  And plumes of smoke issue forth.  But this couple weren’t smoking.

Water is gushing at us from impossible angles.  Just in case we could ignore the drumming of a million drops on the roof, high-pressure hoses send spray horizontally from every direction.  Torrents pour into their car.  Or rather into him.

The man must have sensed my stare.  He turns and smiles.  Water drips from his nose.  His face glistens.  His now transparent white shirt clings to his skin.  He presses a button on his door.  The window winds right up.  He presses it again and down comes the glass.  He nods ever so slightly and pulls away.

Comments

[MrsRW]

I have one explanation for the weather in England right now: He-who-must-not-be-named. Yes, that's right - it's the Death Eaters. The Ministry of Magic has been infiltrated, Ron doesn't know the weather spell and Harry is too busy looking for the Deathly Hallows and the remaining Horcruxes.

Now, don't you feel better knowing that there's a perfectly logical explanation for what you're experiencing.

[James]

So good I nominated it for post of the week: http://www.postoftheweek.com/posts/125#comments

Nice metaphors going on here.