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It rained yesterday and it struck me how weird it is to travel inside a car when it’s raining. You’re in your own private bubble, protected from the elements, from the wet and cold simply by your car’s metal and plastic frame. It’s not much when you think about it but the world inside your car is so far removed.

The sound of the rain is dimmed, muffled. Other cars make that faint swoosh sound when they go past and the water sweeps through their wheel guards. The sound of the windscreen wipers is a regular drone on the background. The rain itself just seems like the backing track of life, that insistent, unstoppable patter-patter. But you’re warm and cosy inside your vehicular bubble. If your car’s like my partner’s, you’ve got your seat warmer cranked up to maximum toastiness and your ass feels like it’s on fire (in a good way).

The rain is so present outside, covering everything, filtering everything. It makes the headlights into stars, the road into roiling oil, the people in other cars into faceless blurs. You’re isolated and alone and, yet, you feel safe inside your warm, dry car cruising slowly on your way to wherever you’re going.

As it happened, I was going home. Nowhere exciting. I don’t usually like the rain but last night I saw something different. It can be interesting and stimulating rather than just depressing and cold. Yep, that’s all I usually think about it. Just another excuse to stay inside on the couch. Preferably in pyjamas.

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