As I sit writing this post, I am reflecting on the fact that it has been a very strange 24 hours. This time yesterday I arrived at the train station expecting to travel home to Edinburgh in Scotland from Newcastle, in the North East of England, to join my friends for a session of knitting and nattering before dinner with Mr Tracks.
As I stood waiting for my train, the sky darkened, the heavens opened and a month’s worth of rain proceeded to fall in one go. It was utterly beyond torrential.
I met a colleague and we lept in a taxi together to travel the 60 or so miles north to his house. We were lucky to leave the city when we did. As the city began to flood, it grid-locked the infrastructure. Some colleagues were trapped for 9 hours, we discovered this morning, even though they lived only a few miles away. Everyone we spoke to had a story, whether it was wading through water to get home, or losing shoes on the way to reach their cars in car parks.
The rail network was at a stand-still because of flooding and landslides. There was no public transport to get me home and many of the roads were impassable, making it difficult for Mr Tracks to come and get me. My colleague and his wife kindly put me up at their house overnight. So I benefitted from very warm and generous hospitality. I could not, however, help but think of the many poor people whose homes had been flooded.
Butter would not melt in the mouth of the lovely weather this morning – it was all beautiful and innocent, as if nothing untoward had happened yesterday. Mr Tracks arrived – my knight in a shining Prius – to take me home. Waving a cheery goodbye to my lovely impromptu benefactors it was right to be grateful for both small and large mercies.