Sunday, oh Sunday.

I knew it was raining as I went to leave the house, knew it would carry on raining. But I chose not to wear a raincoat. I decided I wanted to feel my canvas gilet and thick woollen shirt grow heavy and damp as I walked. It was that thin, wispy kind of rain that looks like nothing much at all but that leaves you soaked in no time. I wanted to march on, with my head down, talking to myself and to the dog. I wanted all of this just so that I could experience that singular feeling of walking back through the front door after a wet, wintery stomp, getting undressed and having a hot shower, drying off and putting my softest, comfiest clothes on, lighting the fire, hunkering down. All in the knowing that winter is real, that I felt her touch, and that she can’t get me anymore, not from the safety of my sofa.

This was the idea, and the urge to play it out was so strong that even walking the dog for an hour and a half somehow didn’t feel like quite enough. So great was the desire for knowing the day, only to get home and to block it out, that on arriving home, I fed the dog, changed into my running gear and headed straight back out. I ran 9k, rain dripping from my brow, my black sweatshirt, thick from the rain it was absorbing. The whole while, imagining that feeling, of getting home and closing the door.

Sunday, oh Sunday.

And sure enough, it felt just as I’d hoped, so simple, so indulgent. I swapped the shower out for a hot bath full of Epsom salts. Made baked beans on toast, lay on the sofa, the dog jumped up and joined me. I closed my eyes and woke up a little while later.