White Sheets of Rain

The four hours at work pass by in a sort of no-time. relatively quiet so I read The Guardian but mostly stared out of the window.
The rain is back, great sheets of bluster and wet. Watching the seagulls from the fourth floor, I noticed how buffeted and thrown they were, like bits of surprised litter cast this way and that. They could barely control their flight.
The horizon of the sea vanished into greyness. The breakers of the sea were almost hypnotic, like wounds in the water, the colour of remembered moons.
It took an hour to wend my way back home; charity shops and reading 'Terrorizer' in WHSmiths, Sainsburys and the pound shop. I'm sure something funny happened in the pound shop, but I can't remember what now.
My god, that last sentence must be the most boring I've ever written.
Days like this are boring though. Maybe that's not such a bad thing; hours extend and stretch, as languid and unhurried as a yawn. Sounds shimmer and fade, become a soundtrack to the thought of approaching naps and preceding cups of tea...
...but before the pleasures of sleep, I have to tidy the bedsit. Again.
I can hear the sound of the gulls outside.
They sound so far away.