Why does it always rain on me?

I, more than likely, did lie when I was seventeen, but I am not sure I should shoulder all the blame and I am not convinced Travis should be wholly trusted.

Actually one lie does stand out. I borrowed my fathers hip flask, complete with some whisky in it. The only time of the year he actually needed (sneaking some booze into Twickenham for the Varsity Match. Tut tut) it was when I decided to take it on loan. I denied all knowledge of its mysterious disappearance and consumed the Scottish potion at school. Craftily (or so I thought), I hid the flask down the back of the drinks cabinet to be discovered at a later date. I would have got away with the ghastly crime had I bothered to wash it out. The lingering aroma of the whisky was my ultimate downfall and I was suitably chastised.

I am getting a bit fed up with the weather. And yes, it does happen every year. Well, weather happens all the time, but hopefully you know what I am writing about.

I quite like rain, in patches. There is nothing like a heavy downpour on a summers day to refresh the dusty surfaces. That lovely earthy smell is a joy to behold. Only last year, Therese and I decided to go for a pleasant and exceedingly wet stroll in a thunderous August downpour. Drenched, but entirely refreshed.



It is the incessant drizzling of cold rain that drives me round the twist. That rain that really does permeate through to the skin. Even the hardiest of waterproofs wave the white flag. On the subjest of waterproofs, I carefully selected the cheapest available for my trip to Ecuador, one of the wettest parts of the globe. As it turns out, my investment in a garment from the bargain bin was not the greatest purchase. The jacket as a whole invited rain to seep through it and the only part that was actually waterproof was the insides of my pockets and they tended to flood during the afternoon downpours. Rendering my essentials (matches, cigarettes and maps) useless.

Having grumbled about the rain, I shall grumble about unnaturally hot places. I have often been faced with tuts and despairing glares after I have succumbed to the power of The Sandman in a theatre or cinema. Can you blame me? The seat are generally extremely comfortable, the lighting is dim and it is warm. Perfect sleeping conditions, don't you agree?

Not forgetting to mention the shops that seem fit to recreate a Saharan type atmosphere in their rented space. You go from one extreme, losing a toe or three to frost bite, to being exposed to a midday blast of heat somewhere close to the equator and the patrons seems fit to give you a distasteful glare as you sweat away like a carb-a-holic in a bakery.

I am bored of this grey weather. Roll on spring and the delights of new life blossoming every step of the way.

Oh dear. I would imagine I have established myself as a true Englishman ranting on about the weather.

Never mind.


Quote of the Day: "Rainbows apologise for angry skies" - Sylvia Voirol

Word of the Day: Brontide - The low rumbling of distant thunder