• I have always found something so very soothing about the rain.
    Not the nasty, windy kind. Just the gentle, quiet, PatPatPat-on-your-rooftop-kind. It's one of my favourite passtimes, in fact, to sit and watch the droplets of water hit the window and roll down, taking bets with myself on which drop should make it down to the bottom first.
    "Laziness" some call it, "Boredom" others would say. "If you have that little to do, then why not help me with the washing, or the cooking? instead of just sitting there, wasting time." Time enjoyed is not wasted, surely? If we are wasting time by enjoying it, would our lives even be worth living?
    "Don't give me your cheek. Come upstairs and help Alfie make his bed."
    And so I am told, that if our entertainment is not productive enough, we will be force from it, back into routine, back into dullness, and true boredom.
    And so I am told that, because I have no proof this hobby of mine is entertaining, that this hobby of mine that I enjoy so much, is not going to make the beds, or wash the dishes, or cook breakfast. I am told that I must, instead, pour my effort into something that is.

    I walk up the wooden stairs, the sound of them creaking beneath my feet is a noise I have grown accustomed to.
    The feel of the old, chipped paint on the banester is a feel I am at home with.
    And the smell of cheap air-fresheners is a scent I would miss if it were not here...
    And as I reach the top of the stairs I see the young orphan boy, Alfie, sitting on the bench by the window-sill, head on his knuckles, staring at the droplets of rain roll down the glass...
    Mumbling encouragment to "Number 6", and telling "4" to slow down, signing in annoyence when another droplet overtakes "Number 6".

    I decide to do all his chores, that morning.