Peace of Pish

My Dear Fellow,

I have started going to Pret every morning. It is only a little out of my way as I head toward the tram stop on Princes Street. Every day I get a pain au raisin, a very berry bowl and a decaf white Americano as I chat to the baristas. My favourite is a friendly Spanish lady who shook her head at the Scottish weather.

I guess she was looking at my jacket which was discoloured from walking through the rain.

"But I like it,” I said. She looked at me in disbelief.

This rain, I explained, was at least warm and vertical. I’m not keen on mean-spirited cold horizontal rain, accompanied by wind that turns your umbrella inside out and spits in your eye.

She laughed indulgently at me, clearly thinking I am bonkers. Then she gave me a free pastry. I love her now. Give me free food and I am all yours. I’m a tart like that.

Now I’m at work. The rain continues. It looks like it’s going to be here all day although the pastry is long gone. I still like it, tapping on the window and making my view more interesting. Rain makes bowls of soup with buttered rolls taste better. It makes you turn on table lamps, giving the room a soft glow. It encourages cats to snuggle close and it quietens the noisy world outside.

It also makes me sit here today in damp trousers, and no-one likes the smell of a damp BA, but that is everyone else’s problem and not mine.

Parsones