There’s a nice irony that a woman called ‘Summer’ should sing a song about rain. I wonder if she’s of British descent? I once knew a girl called ‘Storm’ because she was conceived during one; I wonder how much therapy she needed?
It’s like we live under a waterfall here in Stockport; I’ve never known such torrential rain in this country. It’s the kind of rain we used to get in South Africa – when it did rain, that is; we lived under drought conditions for most of my fourteen years out there and that’s why I can make ten cents’ worth of water do two baths, a pot of tea and three layers of steamed vegetables and still have change for a bottle of Evian.
I used to feel homesick for Britain when we had the occasional rainy day in South Africa; now I feel homesick for South Africa when we have rainy days in Britain. I am homesick a lot. Hooray for the Great British Summer: three sunny days in three months and a dusty fan in the loft.
Poor Spud Bud’s holiday has been cut short because they have spent four days in a caravan wondering if the sea was coming to sweep them away. They did manage some time in the pool, which seems an odd way to me to avoid getting wet. Once they had spent all of their money in the arcade, however, it was time to admit defeat.
I read an interesting article once about rainy weekends. You know how it can be sunny all week and rain all weekend? Apparently, it’s caused by people going away on Friday evenings: the build-up of traffic fumes propagate the clouds, leading to rain. So the people who can afford to get away for a few days spoil it for those of us who can’t. How selfish is that?
I thought I would share a few rain jokes with you but apparently Google don’t do rain humour. If you know any, feel free to post a comment. Sorry if this post is a bit wet: constant, pounding, unrelenting, ceasless, never-ending downpours tend to dampen the spirits a little.