The late Ray Bradbury (I think), once wrote a short story, based on that children’s rhyme, about the day, when, eventually,the rain did come again, forever.
I think he had a point.
A numpty in the Guardian, a couple of days ago, was extolling the virtues of the pretty much incessant rain some of us have been experiencing! Here comes the rain: why we secretly love it when it’s wet. Caution – high crap content!
It starts with “Of all the symptoms of the decline of British civilisation, none is more poignant than the building of a retractable roof over Wimbledon’s centre court in 2009,” and goes rapidly downhill from there, claiming people don’t go for the tennis, they go to get rained on. Written with humour, it might just work, but it’s not (and if it is supposed to be humorous, then the guy is in the wrong job, and based on the comments, I’m not the only one to miss it).
Seriously, nobody with the requisite number of functioning brain cells could find anything positive in this seemingly endless rain (and, here in Wirral, it’s been raining, seemingly non-stop, for months, except for a few sunny days which, apparently, comprised summer for this year).
Rainy days I have no problem with – it’s entire rainy sodding seasons, sloshing along remorselessly, nose to tail, that I object strenuously to – a wet winter, followed by a dismally dank and drizzly spring, and now a sopping summer. No respite from a drought and a hose-pipe ban here.
And aside from the rain, what about the goddamn temperature? Three-quarters of the way through June, and I’ve still got the heat on. And so have many other people.
I’ve lived in the north-west all my life, so rain is not exactly a novelty, but this 9 months or so has been so far off the rainfall scale we need a new scale. And the last thing I need is a turgid newspaper article telling me how great rain is!
And if you’re lucky enough to be reading this and wondering “What rain?” – THIS rain!
Some rain is, essential, of course, but incessant rain is not great, unless you’re a farmer with parched fields after a heat-wave – which we conspicuously have not had.
Rain keeps me, and other power-wheelies, trapped at home. I’d kill for a bright, sunny day, so I could put my powerchair in a cab and go and photograph wildfowl on the lake. Even if this weather broke tomorrow, it would take days, perhaps weeks, for the ground to dry out sufficiently to use my chair without it getting plastered with mud, which would thrill taxi drivers even less than it would thrill me.
There is nothing laudable about continuous rain!
Though, for a wonder, today is not yet wet – but give it time, it’ll get there.