I hate the rain.
I don’t know why.
I think I used to love it.
I think I used to love the sound of a storm pouring down on the conservatory roof.
I do remember a time when I used to find it soothing.
I remember putting on thunder storm recording and listening to it in the background as I worked on an essay, or a dissertation.
but I hate it now.
The harder it pours, the more I’ve got this strange longing to be rugged up on a steamy bus, wiping away the condensation with my sleeve and peering out through the haze to make sure I don’t miss my stop.
In my mind making my way in to town to find a cosy corner in the back of a local coffee shop, plug myself in and while away the afternoon, mocha by mocha.
It’s a nostalgically English relationship with the rain.
The more I think about it, the more I’m finding fond rainy memories.
There was that night it was pissing it down, in Newcastle. My Hut Sluts and I were having a Christmas dinner before the holidays and everywhere was packed because it was the last day of term, or a big hand in or last of the exams, or something.
I didn’t care we were wandering around in the rain, because I had my Barbour on, I kept bragging about how waterproof I was, only it needed treating again, I hadn’t realised and by the time we’d finally decided on TGIs, and ran there in the most monumental downpour we’d seen in months, I was horrified to find I’d got a wet elbow.
I didn’t shut up about it all night.
I ate so much.
Or the time it was hammering it down in Cambodia, type of rain where you’re instantly soaked to the bone, but we didn’t care, we took an umbrella from the hotel (more a token gesture than anything) and turned down a Tuk Tuk driver who wanted to charge us $5 to go 300m.
Rain water nearly up to our knees, we’d waded through the dirty streets, I nearly lost my thongs and had to rescue them as they began to float away.
We found out later how lucky we were, walking around in the water like that, bare foot: one of the kids hopped in to school the next day: he’d stood on a needle that had washed up in the rain, it had got infected and for weeks he had this huge weeping bandage wrapped around his foot.
I remember running out into the street when I was working at North’s, because it was raining so hard, I just wanted to run in it, stand in the rain and let is soak me, wash away my worries, feel it pound onto my cheeks.
Lorna eventually relenting and letting me out because I was so excitable, asking me if I felt better as I dripped back in to the shop.
I’ve stood in rain storms in Africa, Aruba, France, I’ve held my head back and stuck my tongue out, catching the rain drops in my mouth.
I’ve giddily danced in circles, arms outstretched, laughing with the sheer joy of it.
Mum and Dad laughing as Peeves and I belt: “We’re siiiiinging in the rain…” at the top of our lungs, and always being rewarded with some kind of chocolatey treat after.
so you see, I must have loved the rain.
Ordinarily, I’d welcome the excuse not to leave the house, but now it feels trapping.
I’m sat in the window, in the bright orange chair that came with my furnished unit, feeling as out of place as the chair.
Neither of us match our surroundings at the moment.
There’s a quiet rumble of thunder and I feel my heart quicken.
The rain pours with renewed ferocity and the pathetic gutter beside my room begins to spill over.
I have work in a few hours.
I’ll walk round barefoot: it’s easier to dry my feet than my shoes.
My coat isn’t waterproof enough for this kind of deluge, but I’ll wear it anyway.