There is something about writing and weather. If you have the right kind of weather then it is the Write kind of weather. Winter in this way is blessed. How else can one explain the abundance of mountains and walks in writings? The desk no more is a limitation. Writer’s cottages are out for rent and sale and none stand in the heat, dust and grime of city life.
Winter rain is a blessing for the writers who cannot afford to move to picturesque locations advertised on websites for writing. The rain washed balcony with its meagre yet bright green suffices for us nobodies. My balcony doesn’t fit an arm chair for me to sit and muse but the hot cup of tea and a cosy warm blanket makes up for what is not.
City dwelling writers have less to view in terms of birds and no the sounds of morning do not include some melodious chirping. The honking and the clattering of our wagons cover all other melody. The maximum I can expect is the pigeon, a frequent litterer eyeing me as if I trespass his domain. I am adamant not to give in. He chooses not to either and sits on the corner waiting for a reaction. What he doesn’t know is I am not offended, I just found my muse!
The chill in the air makes me shiver and as soon as the pigeon and I have made our peace; in comes the sound of the neighbouring balcony door. What do you call people who live in the flat below you? Neighbours – I presume. The masculine inmate has ventured out to feel the freshness and revive himself with a morning bout of … ugh – cigarettes. As if the poison up my nostril is not enough to kill my writing foray, there is call he makes which seems official and it includes the choicest of cuss words in between full-stops and commas.
The pigeon chose to fly away – higher and is now perched atop the opposite building terrace some seven floors upwards. I get the tease but I remain waiting for the phone call or at least the smoke stick to end.
May be I should look at shifting to those writer cottages high up in the mountains!