I wish this shit weather was a wet dream
MY trousers are soaking, my six-monthold boots leak, and my shoulders are drenched despite having trudged to work in a raincoat like my 12-year-old self was forced to do as a jug-eared schoolboy.
(Yes, I know. I am still jug eared. But they’re now refined jug ears.)
We like to joke about our national obsession with all things weather, but really, this year, the Gods are taking the absolute f***ing PISS.
On Monday there were parts of Blighty that had a month’s rainfall in just a day. Needless to say, I was in one of those parts. Stepping outside was like a bucket of cold water chucked over me.
I nearly drowned the dog merely by walking the f***ing thing and I spent last night listening to the plink-plink of water dripping through the bathroom light fitting into a saucepan on the floor below.
Summer didn’t happen – not unless you were within spitting distance of the Olympic stadium, anyway.
The rest of the country shivered and moaned and waited for a warmish day that never came.
If I was forced – at gunpoint – to find a positive for the weather it would be to grudgingly admit that it’s been nice to go a year without any frigging wasps for once.
And the fact that the always- on- holiday teaching brigade had their six weeks of doing nothing ruthlessly f***ed over by the rain was pretty good, too.
But aside from those small bonuses, Mr Weather God Jupiter, I think we can agree that this year you’ve been an absolute c***.