I want to read, or write, but not sleep at all. Fridays do this to me.
The streetlight has spluttered to its death and will not cast its blurred glow through my hazy window-pane. The husband has been lulled to sleep by the fan at full speed, and will know nothing until beads of sweat pooling on his neck wake him up tomorrow morning. I dare not open the window for fear of mosquitoes. All I wish for now is a soft shower of rain, dripping gently off the pink and orange flowers of the tree on the other side of the road. I want to slide the window open – just a tiny bit – and let earth-scented damp air in to wash away the bitter memories of the thick, white-hot afternoons.
Go on, rain. Bring Maugham’s tropics to life. Who cares, after all, if this city is an equatorial island or a speck on a long coastline? I can see the moon shining through palm fronds from the balcony – isn’t that tropical enough, evocative of the blue sea and the white beaches on vacation brochures?
Conjure up the thunderstorms. I grow more demanding by the minute, and I now ask for a heavy downpour. Do your duty by the parched.