Hot July Rain

Hot rain falls. People huddle under the canopy of shops, in bus shelters or doorways. A squash faced old man gurning unintentionally stands on the doorstep of a closed pub. To russians under a tree in shorts and vests look down at their sodden trainers and laugh. Everybody piles onto the bus - buggies crammed on, familes crowding round to check the babies are content. Traffic is slow. We inch forward, rain streaming down the windows, hot air stifling inside. The man in front of me is exuding a smell of damp tweed mingled wiht stale tobacco. Its a relief to reach my stop, emerging into the pouring rain. My umbrella is big but the rain overcomes my sandles and splashes on my legs.