6 July 2001
While Meg was busy a few miles north-east of me prising her window open before dancing in the rain I was climbing in the newly prised-open ground floor window of a housemate. She didn't find it funny.
My window faces north but the terrace opens out to the south, so I can get quite a breeze channeling through my room with both open. I'd been sitting for a few hours hearing the occasional rumble over my music, curtain drawn over my window to stop the sun thwarting my attempts to rebuild my page and house a blog on it. Coming along nicely thankyouverymuch. Bastard layers!
Anyway, finally persuaded that the rumbling noises were not my housemates I headed out onto the terrace. I thought someone had thrown an orange gel over north London. The light was a deep orange, the sky grey and menacing. The air tasted of ozone, I could breathe it in through my teeth and they ached from the electricity. A storm. Perfect.
It occurs to me that the safest place to be during an impending storm is not on a third floor terrace surrounded by iron railings.
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... the online home and (not very) alter(ed)-ego of Ann McMeekin, a recently freelance Web Accessibility Consultant.
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