It’s 11 oclock at night on a Saturday, and I’m sitting in my room curled up in bed with a hot cup of tea, a good book, and the window flung open wide. The streets are quiet, a strange occurrence, even in Geneva on a Saturday, and all I can hear is the rain absolutely pouring down. If I listen hard, I can pick out the different sounds it makes. I hear it making a higher pitched noise as it hits the street, more metallic now above my head on the roof, and slippery sounding as it hits the overhanging shingles outside my winder. I hear it, as the rain runs down, overflowing the gutters, tumbling to the street below. I love these sounds, it is the most comforting of noises, my world of raindrops.

Every so often thunder cracks, blocking out all else. The gods of Mount Olympus are not angry, it’s Saturday night. Zeus is just throwing a party, and everyone is laughing, drunk on Bacchus’ wine. It must be a good one, because when I lean my head out the window, I watch the sky light up as forks of lightning dance across the sky, turning night to day for one brief instant.

This is a perfect end to a wonderful day.