I like to claim that I’m unusually idiosyncratic. Perhaps weird would be a better adjective. This weather suits me fine.
For three, maybe four weeks now there’ve been sometimes rain, rarely sunshine, most of the time it looked like it might rain but didn’t. Not the close, oppressive air preceding a storm, though. Neither the romantic gusts of wind one loves in one’s teens. The fresh, invigorating kind of air you get between two showers. Despite my almost non-existent olfactory sense I can smell the fragrance of trees, their bark, wood and leaves, and the grass. My smoker’s lungs are ravenous to breathe the humidity in. And most of them bloody insects are hidden.
Even waking up with a sore throat this morning didn’t make me stop liking this. And although I was, after our shift, offered to be driven back home by a workmate, I turned him down. Sore throat or no sore throat, I preferred to walk the two and a half miles in the light, if steady, rain.
I did walk fast, but then I always do. Near the viaduct I met a boy, I guess about fifteen; bareheaded and wet through, but obviously enjoying the rain even more than me. About as much as I would have enjoyed it at his age. I couldn’t help smiling at myself. I may be weird, but I’m not the only or the last one.
Just spare me a repetition of the 2002 floods, when for over thirty hours I couldn’t get out of the block of flats, and of course the electricity was off, and I’ll be perfectly happy with this weather even if it lasted another month or two.
To my bed now. I’m certain there’s nothing weird about loving to sleep when it rains outside.