I’m told that for the past fifty-three days, though it may be fifty-four or even fifty-five by now, it has rained. Right across the Kingdom, too, and not just here in Wales, even though it seems like it when you can’t remember the last time slate roof tiles were grey rather than slick, wet black. And not all day. There have been sunny spells and even a bit of blue sky now and then; they haven’t lasted long though before you could glance up at the sky and say: “Oh dear. Here comes the rain again.”
Yesterday evening Graham had to break off the carting of trash out to the kerb twice to avoid a soaking.
Dolly has become so used to it she has quite lost the habit of sitting meaningfully at the door, waiting to go out. Now and then she sticks her nose out when one of us needs to trek down to the bins. Sometimes, if it’s a bit milder and drier and brighter than has become the norm, she goes out to sit on the step. First hint of a breeze or of a drop or two of rain, though, and she’s howling, yowling and scratching at the glass to come back in.
For all of that, I have managed to come through without getting unduly wet, or cold, and my feet have kept dry and warm. That’s like enough because I do the very best I can to avoid going out in inclement weather. Had years of practice at avoiding inclement weather. Sometimes it’s almost as if inclement weather is what other people experience.
The other day, when the cable guy was here, the conversation switched to the rain and I made my habitual remark about it being foolish to live in Wales and to get upset about a bit of rain. “That’s right,” he said. “Best to think of it as liquid sunshine.”
Don’t you just hate it when the young come up with wiser things to say than you can muster for all your wrinkles and grey hairs?
