Watching Grass Grow.

I can see my reflection in my office window, shadowed in the glow of artificial light fighting hard against the darkness outside. Beyond the pane, clouds have gathered, an ominous army of dark grey firing shots of water at the ground below. The war zone outside looms dangerously, and I feel it, despite the comfort of my temporary sanctuary. And yet, despite the risks lurking beside me, I can be nothing but excited. Rain in a drought-ridden city, although annoying, is a truly wondrous thing.

Because I have discovered that, contrary to perpetual English cliché, grass grows eerily quickly. Both my front and back yard were a cemetery of yellow not two weeks ago, and now they are alive with sweet, lush pastures of green. I have spent the last fortnight watching grass grow, and it has truly been a riveting display.

In other news, it took me a worryingly long time to realise that the Nice Jazz Festival was to be held in the quaint French city of Nice, and not just a festival dedicated to jazz in its most polite forms.