Saturday morning: Woke to the sound of the overflow gushing outside the bedroom window, and managed to prevent it from making me rush to the bathroom. It was just before five, and I remembered that, when falling asleep the night before, I had heard the clock tower bell strike the half, as clear as what it was: a bell. I also recalled what various people had said the day before about the coming weather. These forecasts ranged from a possible shower to a yellow weather warning, but that is to be expected these days. There are as many variations to weather reports as there are apps to predict them, yet the simplest one is free, easy, and accurate. You stick your head out of the window, and if it gets wet, it’s raining.
Not long after five, the thunder started, and stayed with us until at least half ten. It was one of those storms where, when it makes itself really known, you cry, ‘Unplug everything, Maureen, and fetch the sandbags!’ Except we don’t actually say that because we don’t have sandbags, and neither of us is called Maureen. Not even in private.
When it was safe to plug back in again, I spent much time researching the effects of cadmium ingestion (in powdered form), and what might be safely mixed with it to give it the appearance of flour. (Don’t try this at home.) Following that, it was a case of discovering how one could test flour for cadmium without causing it to give off poisonous fumes (again, don’t try this at home). That successfully researched, I then went on to source the address of the Jewish Master Baker’s Association, so I could be accurate when describing the antisemitism taking place outside. Having recently addressed the issue of how one made explosives in the late 19th century, the progress of the Irish Question in 1894, and other anarchist-related subjects, I fully expect a knock on the door any day now.
It is all, of course, for the latest novel, which is now at over 120,000 words and almost at the top of the hill. The hill is metaphoric, but once my imagined carriage of clues gets there, it will face a downhill race to the, hopefully, thrilling climax my characters have yet to invent for me, and me for them.
Which brings me to today. Storm gone, clear sky, it’s planning to be warmer again today, and ‘just right’, you might say. I have nothing planned, but the usual stint at the typowriter, and I’ll start that as soon as I’ve posted this, checked the emails, replied to whatever, ignored the spammers (only five today), and seen to the ‘admin’ of the day — number one: make a cup of tea.
