It was Saturday night. The kids were with their Dad. Boyf and I were in bed, listening to the rain. It was quite lovely.
"Let's go outside and dance in it," I said.
So we got up - buck naked and stone cold sober - ran downstairs like excited teenagers, unlocked the back door, and ran up and down the back garden, whooping. Then we held hands in the middle of the lawn and danced round and round until we were literally freezing our tits (moobs) off.
And then we went indoors. Soggily. Tripping over flower pots. Avoiding slugs.
Those six minutes of damp, ridiculous, squelchy bliss sum up the good bits of my life post divorce. The freedom, excitement, anxiety (my patch of grass is overlooked by a whole row of terraced houses) - love.
Thing is, I always wanted to dance naked in the rain. Just not with my husband. If he were to dance in the rain, there would have had to have been waterproof capes, safety tape and hot towels. A 'Wet Floor' A frame warning sign. Emergency lighting. What am I saying? Even with those things, he wouldn't have danced with me; preferring instead to spend the evening watching How I Met Your Mother on loop.
(By the way, Boyf is less Health and Safety, more White Knuckle Ride. In rides a motorbike and gesticulates wildy at every boy racer who comes anywhere near him. This gets him (and us, if I'm riding pillion) in some scrapes, which I pretend I'm fine with - but wish I was at home watching How I Met Your Mother on loop. Post divorce, I am pushing myself to be braver in life, but really, conflict is not my bag.)
Of course, if the kids had been home, there'd have been no dancing naked in the rain. Even without the naked bit, the fact that your own kids were watching and rolling their eyes and thinking, "what twats" would have put the kibosh on the whole thing.
So we were lucky, that night. No kids, no slugs, no nosy neighbours (I think). Just two ageing, pale, slightly overweight people, jiggedy jiggeding around a tiny patch of turf. Catching cold.