We British are a febrile bunch – one moment working ourselves up into a lather over the incessant rain, the next moment panting hopelessly as the sun beats down on our leathery, wizened pink foreheads. Now we’re sorry, though, as winter beats its sadistic way to our doors, killing all the flowers on its way up the garden path.
As the rain patters against the window and I put off running outside to the car to go home, I find myself chuckling at the news item this morning which said that the south of England would be stuck in a drought until the middle of next year. I’ve never understood this drought business – I’ve not used a hosepipe in years, and as long as water continues to flow out of the tap and I can enjoy ridiculously long showers (it’s where I do all my thinking) then there’s not a problem.
You don’t really worry about things you can’t see, like internal organs, your bank account, or Africa. Perhaps it’s simply easier to worry about stupid things like the weather, a shallow concern, just touching base with the fact that you’re just about still human. I have gradually become at one with the realisation that I am not much of a human being – I don’t really care about my bank account, Africa or the weather.
I lie. I am worried I’ll get wet if I go out to the car just now.
2 hours ago