I quite like rain. Not surprising for someone from the Rainy City who is precipitously aware, but I genuinely like it. It’s the stuff of life and nothing drives it home better than the sopping suit of civilisation failing to protect us from the uncertainty of the weather.
I should have an umbrella, of course, but despite Manchester’s reputation, I’ve never really had need of one. Ignore the stereotype — it doesn’t rain that much in the city. The last one I owned whipped inside out and fell to bits and ended up in a bin on a windy trip to Bolton last January.
But back to rain. The time it really worries me is when I’m lying in bed, it’s rat-a-tatting on the window and I have a trip on the motorway ahead of me.
That was the prospect this morning. It was lashing down and I had to go to Preston, but the Gods of the M61/6 were smiling kindly on me. When we set off, the sun was shining and was again on the way back.
Not so on the way home. The sky was black and roads were flooded. The drive took ages. And as this is the most boring, weather-related blog I, or anyone else has ever written, I’ll close it here.
Other to remark that the rain has stopped.