People huddled under bus shelters, gathered in doorways, peeked out from front room windows to gawp at the weather.
Water rushed along the edge of the kerb, flowing quickly, forming small lakes on street corners. Cars were parked on the side of the road, headlights on, waiting out the storm. Thunder made its statement, roaring across the sky followed by a shaking crackle of fork lightning; soon after, small white balls of hail clinking on tin roofs, floating in the streams that rushed along the edge of the kerb like tiny ice cubes to cool down a hot, muggy day. I’ve never seen an English storm like this.
Those people watching, the ones huddled together under shop fronts and the awning of a pub, saw a crazy girl walking slowly home, sloshing through puddles, face to the skies, blond hair draped in ropes down her back, clothes clinging like fabric plastic wrap, hail stones in her handbag, smiling to herself.
Sometimes it’s exhilarating to be the crazy one.