Not in Nottingham


Heavy raindrops tapping against my window stirred me from a deep sleep. Despite the fact that I had securely fastened my window the night before, Old Man Winter’s icy breath had invaded my small room and settled on the skin of my exposed arm and face and my small little nose was so cold it stung. It was enough to send great gulping chills racing up my spine and I quickly tucked myself beneath the covers careful to pull them up to my chin. Luckily for me the warmth of the night still lay about me beneath the blankets and I warmed relatively quickly despite the frosty air.

It was still very dark with only the slightest white glow around the outside of my curtains from the insufficient light beyond. I was quite certain it was still night but a quick glance at the clock told me it was already eight thirty in the morning. I didn’t have to open my floral curtains to know that it was one of those dull, grey, rainy days, the type that carries on in its dismal ways throughout the entire day.

Weather like this can be dreary, miserable and even depressing. The cold can sink deep beneath our skin chilling our very spirits and diminish our usual personalities. Today, however, I had no particular place to be and no impending visits that might otherwise have impeded me from wearing my pajamas all day if I so chose. It was as though the day itself had given me the license to relax and catch up on me.

I snuggled into my warmest sweater and sat with a cup of tea as I wrote. Outside the rain was falling harder than ever, splashing to the ground so often it had created a lazy mist that hovered over the ground. The sky had maintained its dull grey and showed absolutely no signs of letting up.

As I looked outside one phrase repeated itself frequently, a phrase from an old song and for some reason I felt the inexplicable urge to watch Disney’s Robin Hood. “…but not in Nottingham…”


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