Where’s north from ‘ere?

The proverbial rainy day. It variously drizzles, steadily pours, and hammers down in torrents. There is thunder. I show Freya how to count the seconds between lightning and thunder to judge distance. Just over a kilometre. “Tor is angry!” says Jacob, with the conviction of somebody who believes this to be a reasonable explanation. Like him, I forget about the physics, and enjoy the rain. Freya enjoys the cosiness indoors. It’s dark enough under the thundercloud that we need the lights on inside.

Liz calls in the afternoon to tell me she’s bought a Mac in Covent Garden. I wonder why; she recently bought a laptop. It transpires that this mac is chartreuse. She messages me, from somewhere on the tube, in her new outfit, and I literally get the picture.

The rain stops in the evening, and sky is clear. I see fog, rolling down the valley below us, and I’m glad that we live above Heggedal, rather than in Heggedal.

At midnight, the sun is in the north and only about five degrees below the horizon. This never seems right.