In the garden, everyone's outside enjoying the cool dry air. Even the giant snails are making their slow way across the muddy path. Pulling sharply at Whisky's leash to stop him sniffing interestedly at the snails, I cross the road and turn into the Sophia college lane, where smiling girls are rolling their eyes, talking to boys outside their hostel. It's been there for years. The three young dogs slouch and lope like a canine mafia.
Whisky stands still, stiffening, almost like a young officer saluting agroup of seniors.
A neighbour's spaniel called Pablo, after Picasso, suddenly sees me and comes bounding joyfully across. He wants to lick my face. His coat is soft and gleaming black. I pat Whisky too, before he can get jealous. Dogs love the rain, but then they also love this brisk cool breeze and this sensation of dryness after the moist melancholy of recent weeks.