Yesterday morning it rained in London. Proper rain. Big, splashy, drenching rain. Rain that carried on plopping off the leaves for ages once it had stopped.
And for 20 minutes, I was back in Yangon. Back to where the heat bursts and the sky cracks and the rain falls like books off a shelf and pummels every cell of you. Back to the daily monsoon that drenches you through to your skin in three seconds. Where umbrellas keep your eyebrows dry, but that's about it; the back-splash from the pavement ensures a full soaking.
Yesterday, that's what I needed. After a few weeks of darting around like a gekko, accidentally crisping my ears in sun-traps, blinding my luminescent legs with their first exposure of the year, I loved the rain check.
I also loved the visceral reminder of my old home. The smell of rain on hot concrete, the sound of birds emerging as the pummel reduces to a pitter-patter. The clarity that emerges after the rain, the simplicity, the natural order of things.
I miss it. The closest I can get to that feeling in the UK is standing on a blustery shore, letting the wind and the rain do their worst. This is rare in a delightful summer. In the meantime, I hold onto my things from Burma as teleports. My brass jug, my wibbly tumblers, my rooting rattan. Little pieces of the place I so love, and so miss, even when my adored UK is at its very best.
