Rainy Season

I knew I’d made a mistake as I drove out of Morrisons car park. I turned on the radio and tuned in to Test Match Special for the England/Australia ODI and it was crackling like a bowl of Rice Krispies which told me that the static was gathering to herald the predicted thunderstorm.

Trouble was, I’d just bought the makings of a barbecue — lamb, chicken, steak and sausages — after we decided to risk the weather forecast for another al fresco meal. After all, Metcheck had managed to get it comprehensively wrong yesterday. “Sunny in the morning.” No it wasn’t, it was cloudy. “Rain in the evening.” Actually, it was clear.

By four, the sky had got so black that the streetlights came on and by 4.15 the rain started, followed by lightning and thunder louder than a Chav’s car stereo. I mean it. The revurbs made the walls wobble.

At least I hadn’t lit the barbie, unlike one of our neighbours, judging by the smoke puthering over the hedge. (What is it about Father’s Day that dad gets to cook?) The rain has eased off now, but it’s still as dark as a coal-hole picnic, so no barbie then. And no opportunity to try out the deluxe barbecue tool set gifted to me by Miss P. (See what I mean about dads cooking.)

Hey ho. An Indian it is then, and catching up with the last episode of Dr Who videoed last night.

So I’ll leave you with the strap line from the above pic taken from Miss P’s FD card: “She looked just like her Father… still, at least she was healthy.”

It’s a wise lass who knows her own father.

Nobody’s prefect. If you find any spelling mistakes or other errors in this post, please let me know by highlighting the text and pressing Ctrl+Enter.

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