Lately I find myself longing for rain. Not the discrete little sprinkles that have been
taking place so conveniently over the last few nights, but huge great downpours, enough to keep me trapped indoors during the day and make the house so gloomy I don’t even want to look out of the window. And round here we’ve had nothing but sunshine for what seems like weeks now. Days flash by and they are all fine, usually warm, often breezy, but sadly with very little rain.
My husband hates the stuff. It makes him grumpy and bad tempered, stops him from going out
on his bike or doing all the little jobs outside I’m just longing, and hinting, he should be getting on with. So why am I moaning about such perfect spring weather? Isn’t it great to loll around in the sunshine under trees bowed down with blossom?
Why on earth should I want the rain? Is it because I have an allotment and a garden that’s starting to dry out so badly I swear the cat’s likely to disappear down a canyon sized crack, unlikely ever to return? (If you read my recent post about what the little beast gets up to, you
might say that would be a good result, for the birds at least.)
Yes of course it would be nice for the flowers to last for more than a few days, and my seedlings are so parched, even if they bother to germinate at all, and many of them don’t, they hardly have the strength to grow unless I water, water, water.
But my need for rain runs deeper and it comes from guilt, sheer and utter guilt. When you are
trying to be a writer, with only a modicum of success so far, it’s very hard to justify all the time spent tap, tapping at a keyboard when all around there are jobs to be done. And it’s only when the rains bucketing away outside do I have a good reason for staying indoors.
What’s the latest weather forecast? Dry, sunny and with a brisk wind, the very best weather for being outdoors, and I can see through the window the hedge needs clipping. Bother!