After a long time, gorgeous mornings are more common. When the view outside is a watercolour painting and the sparrows, crows and pigeons outside the orchestra. And I feel a cool breeze that others can't. There's been no catalyst for this. Nothing out of the ordinary, but then nothing's been ordinary either. Every day seems like a satisfying movie.
These days hinted long ago that they would come. And they came, jarringly at first, but more fluidly after, perhaps hastened by my recent move to Wisden Asia Cricket, which gives me twenty days to write before production kicks in. Or it could be the 58 books bought in the last three months, including Maps for Lost Lovers.
And it's good to know these mornings could get even better a month from now when the rains come and wash the streets with their own pitter-patter beat.