The cat stares out the open door into the back garden as the rain hammers down. He then turns to me, eyes full of blame and disappointment and opens his mouth as if to meow in protest, but closes it again silently. My failure to control the weather isn’t worth commenting on. Unwilling to brave the wet, he contents himself with lying on the doormat and grooming himself. Every few moments he’ll lift his head from licking his fur and stare at me with disdain. By not stopping the rain I have ruined his day.

Usually, after all this, I top up his food and give him clean water. Occasionally I’ll drop a Dreamie (cat treat) or two on the floor as well for him to track down. He’ll bat them around with his paw before pouncing and devouring the little nuggets of joy. I am forgiven, for the time being, for not being able to turn back the rain. He will go find a suitable place to nap and I will head back to work.

Unlike the cat, I do not begrudge the rain at the moment. Being housebound it makes me yearn that little bit less for freedom. It makes the house that bit cosier, the couch a bit comfier. I cook hearty food and eat maybe a serving too much of it. I ponder the raindrops racing down the window panes, each taking a different path. I have a lemsip in the morning and a lemsip with whisky in the evening to make sure my mild symptoms stay that way.

It’s a relief and incredible good fortune that my case is seemingly so light, but there’s a part of me that’s still nervous. A part of me waiting for another shoe to drop, expecting things to get worse. It won’t let me just be ill and get over it, it has to be worried that I’m missing something somehow.

So I have a whisky and write it down while the cat tries to crawl on my lap and the rain batters the window and the skylight. The cat leaps down and stares out the window and then back at me. It’s my fault, after all.