RAIN is coming, and the drought which has afflicted traditional conversations about weather is almost ended. Overexcited Britons will be having these dialogues:
“Good for the garden! Isn’t it! Isn’t it good for the bloody garden!”
It is news to nobody that water is key to the vegetative lifecycle, but that shouldn’t deter you from shouting about it. ‘All this grass that’s yellow? It’ll be green soon, because of rain! Because of brilliant, blessed rain!’ If your interlocutors are not as exhilarated as you are about this simple fact, shout louder.
“Don’t know how much you miss it until it’s gone, do you? Oh God I’ve missed it so much”
Make it clear this is personal for you. That the lack of rain hasn’t just damaged our ecosystem and our ability to make small talk, but has exposed a hole in your fragile psyche which can only be filled with comfortingly wet, gloomy weather. If you end up weeping ‘Rain… rain,’ onto their shoulder, they’ll understand.
“Might rain again later. Just saying that made me rock-hard”
A simple declarative statement, such as one might share at a bus stop if everyone wasn’t in noise-cancelling headphones, but being able to say it for the first time since early in June has given you an irrepressible erection. Because of course your sexuality is tied up with bad weather. You’re British.
“Cools everything down, doesn’t it? The ground, the soil, my thoughts”
You hadn’t realised, until today’s gorgeous, wonderful shower, how hot and dry everything had become. The garden, the playing fields, the woods, your internal monologue which without soothing water falling from the sky had become a parade of fury and murder much like that of a Reform local councillor. ‘The rain made me sane again,’ you tell the postman.
“Think it’ll last into the weekend? Oh please, please let it last all weekend”
The very thought of dark skies and relentless rain continuing across Saturday and Sunday, with two whole days to do nothing but luxuriate in it? It makes you breathless with anticipation and reckless about sharing your elation. ‘I’d probably lash myself to a lamppost, strip naked and howl all night,’ you inform the rest of the Subway queue.
“Nice weather for ducks! Isn’t it! NICE F**KING WEATHER FOR DUCKS”
Why not swing by the park with your meal deal at lunchtime and vicariously enjoy the pleasure of those domestic waterfowl who love the rain most? Except they don’t seem to be enjoying it enough, you end up wading into the pond and screaming at them, and the police are called. ‘Lovely spot of rain,’ you tell the arresting officer.
