Thursday rain — Petra wrote it down

I am writing this because the hall keeps a shorter version of thursday rain — petra wrote it down than the one I lived through. If you only heard it at the table after bread, you might think nothing happened. Something did. If you disagree, say it before Friday twenty minutes, or write mail. A thread that grows on Saturday without a note becomes a rumour, and Sander will read the rumour as bread. If this helped, you do not need to thank me. Put the thing back where the next person expects it.

I counted because Lena counts. I tied back because Joost ties. I turned the bulb off because Anouk should not have to say it a fifth time in one month. I will not reply to every thank-you. I will notice if the kettle is on the cellar stair again.

Someone will ask again in a week. The answer will have the same shape: read the paper, read the board, write two lines if you need a bed, and do not invent a meeting that was only rain.

Writing so Saturday does not become detective work. My boots are on the step. Green pair. If they are in your way, move them one metre, not into the long room. Mail if it is a bed question.