A rain gauge, a notebook, a year

A plain plastic gauge, a pencil on a string and a notebook that lives on the kitchen windowsill. Each morning, before anything else, I read it, write the number down and tip it out. It takes less than a minute and it has changed how I notice the weather.

A year in, the notebook says what the garden always knew: the wettest month was not the one that felt wettest, and the dry spell in April was longer than I remembered. Memory edits weather the way it edits everything.

If you want to start, start on a day that is not special. Tomorrow's reading is as good as any.