Windy day and the powerlines flap across the San Francisco sky outside my window. In 9 days I will be getting on a plane and moving to England with my partner. I keep having the distinct sense that I am living out the last few pages of a very large section of a novel, and we are about to open on Part III, where the main character finds herself somewhere new entirely, and we are introduced to a new set of characters, problems, seasons, and locales that somehow carry the story forward. Suddenly it occurs to me to look up the weather in Manchester, where we will be landing. I discover that the BBC weather service 5 day forecast has developed a variety of icons for rain that I have never even imagined. One big fat rain drop for drizzle vs. two for light showers, extra emphasis marks around the cloud for downpours, and on and on. The old cliche about the eskimos having 40 words for snow comes to mind, and I feel a few degrees of dread creeping under my skin... It really is supposed to rain every day. Perhaps it will end before Friday. Or perhaps that is just the setting for those opening pages...

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