Bucketing rain makes me think of an afternoon in 1999 or early 2000 when I lived in an old, tall house near Brighton seafront with 7 other people. When there was weather about you could see it rolling in from the sea and hear it buffeting against the front door. My room was the smallest (I’d answered an ad for the last one available) and at the back, overlooking a tiny yard. The half that wasn't the bed was mostly books and a huge hi-fi, and I'd put a purple patterned curtain of the 70s over the tatty wardrobe.
There used to be a bookshop on St James St called Tall Stories, and I bought a book about time which I don’t have anymore and made some scones which turned out badly, as they always did. I listened to Charlie Parker and enjoyed being indoors. It’s more an impression than a full memory, and there’s nothing remarkable about it. The only reason it might stand out is that there weren’t many weekend days which I spent alone. Quite often I worked one or other of them, and I spent a lot of the rest of the time at my boyfriend’s house, who lived with other friends. Standing on the bus this morning, squashed into a silent deck with sleepy, damp people, it was good to remember a time of feeling exactly like myself.