…goes to anyone who, when referring to the torrential rain we’re having, says “well it’s good for the garden.”
Fuck the garden! Get a ruddy hosepipe. It’s summer for god’s sake.
I have a love hate relationship with British summertime. As in I love summer, and hate when it’s a let down. Summer is, without doubt, my favourite time of year. It gets me through winter. I love the lighter nights, the warm air, sitting outside in a pub beer garden until it’s dark, chilling on my balcony with a book, eating al fresco, not needing a coat, wearing sandals, driving with the windows down and music blasting.
Rain stops all that. It’s like the spoilt kid in the playground who ruins the game when everyone else is playing nicely. Like the last piece of the jigsaw puzzle you’ve been working on for ages going missing. Like reading a really really good book and then being disappointed in the ending.
Rain ruins festivals, cancels barbecues, forces the use of tumbledryers and floods rivers/fields/houses.
In short, it’s crap.
I can handle anything apart from rain.
I read something the other day that gave me a slightly different perception of our summertime, in the free Boots magazine (highbrow). It was the words of a born and bred Aussie who has lived in the UK for many years and was comparing Australian summers to British. She said that in Australia, because it’s always sunny and hot, you don’t get that sense of excitement that you do in the UK. You’re always wearing sticky sunscreen and sitting next to a fan at every opportunity. In the UK, because our sunshine is few and far between, we go mad for it! We sit outside at lunchtime, we eat ice creams, we wear as few clothes as possible. We get excited at the prospect of wearing new flip flops. All from a sense of making the very best of it. And I guess in a way that’s kind of cool.
But rain. Not cool. So do one.