The wind moves the leaves of the trees outside the window. The rustling is reassuring, like a soothing piece of ancient music. I love wind when I am in not in it. Like now. When I worked in Cape Town often I sometimes rented a flat in Vredehoek, and there, as we know, the wind can blow like it wants to kill someone. And I loved it. I loved being warm and safe while the weather raged and moaned as it whipped against the concrete blocks of 20’s deco.
But wind is something I really don’t like on my skin. Like when Mary irons my cotton shirts so flat that the polyester thread melts, and then scratches. All day. In my neck. You get the picture.
Wind is really my least favourite element, from a tactile point of view. A cool breeze on a sweltering day is a blessing for sure, but I find any other form of moving air in any other situation… uncomfortable. I don’t like to eat al fresco when there is even just a little wind. The irregular rustle of trees is charming only when I hear it. On my back it feels like a gentle but mean nudge from someone saying please leave, you are not wanted here.
There were ten thyme sprouts visible in the pot this morning. I felt enormously pleased and watered everything generously.