Perfect

I suppose it is as perfect a day as I could want. I was going to say ‘ask for’ but that would mean ending a sentence on a preposition (or perhaps a proposition) and me being a writer and all, well, there you have it. Such things simply aren’t done in polite society.

On the other hand, no one has ever actually successfully convicted me of following the rules, and let’s be honest. You’re not exactly polite society!  Well, Perhaps Miss Sarah, but that’s all. That one is even open to reasonable doubt because most of you who will eventually read this are also writers. We are not only born to if not outright break the rules, at least fracture them here and there.

So perhaps, after all I could just say ‘it’s as perfect a day as I could ask for’ and let it go.

I suppose you want a clarification. Or possibly a qualification. Perhaps even some other –tion of which I am unaware. Whatever.

It is presently 15:37:30 on 28 November, 2011. It is 62.8°f (17.1°c if you are so inclined. Generally speaking I am not) and there is still the steady fall of light rain that has persisted since before my rude awakening this morning at the hands (paws?) of my wife’s BAC (work it out on your own, won’t you?) who had selected that precise moment to go from the floor on my wife’s side of the bed to the bathroom on my side of the bed, in which are located both the kitty potty and food and water bowls. For whatever reason, the wee beastie believes that the direct overland route is preferable to simply walking around the bed, and is in no way deposed to being concerned that in so choosing, she is trampling the sleeping form of the other human who occupies that space during darkness.

But now you ask, what in all of that make the day perfect, for surely being nearly bludgeoned first awake and then into self-righteous agony and irritation by an only marginally domesticated feline of disreputable origin does not qualify, and I would reply that it is indeed both a wise observation as well as a brilliantly conceived question.

(Bright soul that you are, you will have no doubt already perceived that I am fluent in sarcasm).

It is, of course, the rain. The cool, refreshing, devilishly delicious, darkly delightful tap dance of rain steadily thrumming the aluminum awnings covering each window of our humble west central Florida domicile. It is most divinely delicious in the sun room where there are enough well placed frighteningly efficient open windows to create a cross breeze. They normally dampen the sonorous dance of rain pixies when closed, so this is a genuine delight. It is a little cooler in the house because of this, but I suppose that’s why God invented cotton fleece, after all.

A good book, a steaming mug of Earl Grey, the pitter-patter of music on the awning, and all is very much right with the world. All that’s missing is Michael Flatley telling Barbra Walters that he’s the best dancer in the world after each sweeping brush of sea scented downpour. Oh wait – I don’t really miss that part!

I have always maintained that I prefer a cool day that requires a long sleeve shirt and perhaps fleece leggings to a hot day in which no matter what you remove, you still sweat. This is one such day. Cool temperature, light steady even rain, good book, Earl Gray and a hot bowl of homemade soup for dinner. And the company of a good friend – my best friend – and her BAC.