the dampest fish in the sea

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I like rain. Perhaps this makes me unusual. I like the puddles I try to avoid. I like the sound a raindrop makes as it hits a window. I like the smell of rain on a hot summer's day and the giggles of a toddler splish-splashing in puddles whilst wearing bright yellow wellies. I like that moment when one feels the spit-spot of water upon one's face just before the heavens open; the hand with its upturned palm, the voices confidently muttering, feels like rain! I particularly like rain that comes with a bow. Such prettiness. However, I do not like rain. I do not like rain which comes from the sky as tiny ice-cold needles, pricking my skin like a million tiny Gulliver Land cavemen with spears. I do not like rain of the wet variety, which leaves one feeling as though they've jumped off the end of the pier whilst fully clothed. I particularly do not like rain which comes horizontally, accompanied by a very strong blustery gusty wind, rain which - within seconds - creates a land of unavoidable puddles and causes water to gush from guttering and roofs. My shoes are still wet despite it being two nights since I was caught in a downpour of epic proportions. My drying cardigan left a puddle as large as an ocean underneath the living-room radiator following a torrential drenching in a weather-world which would have seen Noah reaching for his hammer. Even my knickers were wet. Such is life.