I woke in the night to a roar of water pounding down on the tin roof. When I put Nes to bed earlier in the evening it had been but a pitter patter that she asked after. I told her it was one of mummy’s favourite sounds; rain on a tin roof. It’s like a natural sedative, to hear it and immediately you want to curl up in bed with a good book and breathe deeply. But this, this was a torrent of rain, so much so it spooked Wednesday enough to get up in the pitch black and come over to my side of the bed, putting her chin on me as if to say, “Protect me, human”.
I woke Hugo who could sleep through a bomb being dropped outside our bedroom window, and asked if the pool could potentially overflow and make a landslip of the brand new and currently unplanted terraces that cascade down from one end of it. He assured me with a mumbled no, and promptly went straight back to sleep.
I did not.
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