He ignored it as best he could. Intermittent rain was hitting the waterproof groundsheet above his head like fingers impatiently tapping a table, and despite his best attempts to string the sheet between two bushes so that it kept him dry, whilst allowing folds and channels for the water to drain away safely, some of it was collecting underneath and hanging in bulbous, quivering drops before falling onto him. The only good thing about the fact that the sun wasn’t shining was that the rash on his arms and hands had subsided. The itching was barely noticeable now, and he was grateful. He’d been slathering it with his father’s chlorhexidine antiseptic talc, just in case it was an infection of some kind, but it hadn’t helped. He really needed to make another appointment at his local surgery. He’d been putting it off for weeks, if not months, but things were starting to slide out of control. Time passed slowly when you were watching a fixed spot and waiting for a bird to fly back to its nest or an animal to emerge from its burrow, the seconds trickling past like drops of water and puddling into minutes, hours, days.
