It's still raining and the local Mela Festival organised by the Multicultural Centre has been cancelled as the venue currently resembles a pond more than a park.
So, I just made another mug of tea and am going back to Lucio's Confessions, which has had me glued to its pages all morning.
I simply can't believe this was written in 1913, it is so ahead of its time that all the images it conjures up for me are from the late 1920s, the heyday of expressionism and modernity, but mixed with fin-siecle sentiment. It's weird. It's glorious. I am loving it.