It’s been raining in São Paulo…as I read The Years, the perception of being in Oxford in 1880 is inevitable.

The fine rain, the gentle rain, poured equally over the mitred and the bareheaded in the impartiality which suggested that the god of rain, if there were a god was thinking Let it not be restricted to the very wise, the very great, but let all breathing kind, the munchers and chewers, the ignorant, the unhappy, those who toil in the furnace making innumerable copies of the same pot, those who bore red hot minds through contorted letters, and also Mrs. Jones in the alley, share my bounty.  Virginia Woolf, The Years, 1880.