Genesis in a bedroom and watching pavements move (01)

Tonight seems a bit mushy. I've developed indigestion and can't remember what day it is. I look on my Mac. 

Number six. Day number six. That'll do.

I'm feeling creative, and so decide that tomorrow, day number seven, I'm going to get the bus somewhere and take my camera, a note book and a pen.

With the residual lyrics of Modest Mouse entangled in my ear fibres, entering the fluid-filled hollows of the cochlea, stimulating the spiral ganglion, I know inspiration isn't far behind.

Day number seven started with a splash of sunshine and a downpour of rain, a smashing paradox that would unknowingly set me up for the rest of the day.

Briggate. Can't see the floor and the inbetweens of my toes are pleasantly moist. 

There is a carpet of liquid clouds gushing down gullies , falling through drains and bouncing off the pavement into vapour. I take a few photos of umbrellas and a definitively desolate Mr Whippy vender.

I notice a middle aged woman through the corner of my eye staring at me. Not an unusual occurrence given that I'm taking a photo of an icecream van in a thunder storm. "Your camera will get wet." She proclaims, matter-of-factly, seemingly oblivious to the umbrella over my head. I don't reply, and continue walking.