I love the sound of Thunder. Loudly declaring its entrance across the sky in bursts of noise and tiny droplets of rain. Atop the roof we McGivered a makeshift terrace. Armed with Pain Au Chocolat, water, sun screen and countless fashion magazines we made our way up the less that sturdy ladder and hoisted ourselves onto the tarmaced roof. The Gherkin was in plain view along with quaint stoops and chimneys that lined the streets nearby. Dozing in and out of consciousness, I finally gave way to sleep as the clouds began to save us from the heat by overtaking the sun. Cool breeze gave way to still, then picked up again, a mild calm before the storm. A rain drop landed slightly North East of my belly button. We made out way back down into the house and I am now seated on the futon sipping a cup of tea as darkness overtakes the sky and the smell of rain drifts gently into the room. Thunder claps louder and lightning illuminates the dim streets of Brick Lane. I still smell like sunshine.

I love the smell of rain. I, however, do not love spilling tea on my skirt.