Rain

It has been raining, almost solidly, for almost a month now. I don't mind a bit of rain, now and again. Sure, we'd all be living in a desert if it didn't tip down now and again. The reason this country is so fecking green is because of all that precipitation. It's a wonder we don't all have moss growing up us, to be honest.

But this constant, incessant, stultifying rain is wearing me down. You can't do anything, not even laundry. And it's cold, too. It's not the soft mizzling rain of a warm irish summer. It's more like the chilly, sinew-tightening rain of late october. It's not much fun being a pagan in summer anymore: try to dance round a handy phallic standing stone at midnight and you'd get your death. Not that I have ever danced round anything at midnight. Well, not unless you count the back garden during an infamous party a few years back. But that was down to the drink and the company, rather than any spiritual urges.

The thing is, I don't remember the summers of my youth being so wet. There was that dreadful June to August when I was seventeen, when it did rain almost every day, but that stands out in my memory because it was so unusual. This place is hardly the CoteD'Azur, but we used to have summers that passed for summer, with long, balmy days and warm evenings, where you could sit outside with a nice glass of wine and watch the stars.

Nowadays it's all rain. And I can't see the stars when it rains.