We have had almost non-stop rain for three days now, and for three days it has been difficult to walk the dogs. My dogs love walks but hate rain. They ran to greet the Hub at the front door the other day. When I opened it, they hurtled out, then hurtled right back in again, like a cartoon character running off a cliff.
It rained and rained and rained and rained and rained yesterday, and was as tedious as this sentence. By nine o’clock I was in my pyjamas because I knew there was no hope of a walk for them. At ten, Molly, who doesn’t even like to go in the garden to do her business on dry days, was crossing her legs and hopping on the spot.
I opened the back door to force her out and noticed it had stopped raining. Such joy! It was like the moment in Abergele the Hub told us we could give up camping.
The Hub’s CFS/ME gives him temperature issues. That’s how we found ourselves in the middle of the night in a November Stockport street: him in summer shorts and loose sweater; me in trainers and an ankle-length winter coat over my pyjamas, walking two frisky dogs.
The Hub shushed me as I said, ‘I’ve never been out at night in my pyjamas.’ ‘Shush! Everyone will know you’re a Scouser.’ ‘I hope no-one sees us,’ I said, just as the packed 309 bus passed us, with every passenger on our side of the street doing a double-take.
Of course, the real issue is: how do you see a dog poo in the dark?