I love the rain.
Proper rain, mind. No sane person likes drizzle. Hours, I spend, poring over the Met Office weather maps hoping for those two sturdy rain drops as fervently as others long for the symbol of the sun.
When the real hard stuff sluices down our window panes I feel the sort of euphoria which other people pay a small fortune to achieve. I stand at the front door gazing raptly at the rods of wet scouring our path tiles. I dash suspensefully across the garden to measure the rising levels in my wheelbarrow. And, from my window, I watch soaked people scurrying down the pavements. I don't get so much pleasure as I used to from this last, however, for, as I've mentioned before, my character is improving.
I love the rain because:
It tops up my pond. Weeks I spent with my pickeaxe, hacking the London clay to create this out of a bramble patch. Now word has got out. Newts and dragonflies have moved in and the water writhes with tadpoles. But sun shrinks the level and tap water is lethal to the residents and so I crave rain to keep it brimming.
Leaping about the trampoline in a downpour is a joy that far too few people sample:
It relieves the monotony of the daily trudge to school (and gives me additional opportunity to flaunt my Hunter wellies):
It clears well-known beauty spots of disfiguring anoraks so that you can picnic in wet and windy solitude:
When blown in by gales, it installs thrilling new play equipment in familiar landscapes:
And, come evening, when it's pounding the windows, it conjures inside you a delectable snug smugness that money could never buy:
Go on, admit it here in strictest confidence - you love the rain too: