I love a good ole rainstorm on a Sunday, when I can be all bundled up indoors in front of the fire, listening to the rain with either a good book or a good film at hand, lots of tea and no reason for me to set foot outside.
On any other occasion, I detest the rain.
Summer ‘07 was by far the rainiest in my memory. I’ve no idea how many days I rolled into work looking like a drowned rat, or slipped my way down Grafton Street or sidestepped a puddle only to end up in an even bigger one.
I also went through five umbrellas in the space of four weeks. Note to everybody: Never spend more than €6 on an umbrella, especially not in Ireland. Just pop into Penneys. Sorted.
Last summer I also found myself wishing I didn’t have a thing against wellies.
Y’see, I grew up in Kerry. Wellies did not translate as rainboots. Oh no! Wellies screamed farmer. And I was no farmer, I’ll have you know.
But since puddles = wet shoes = wet socks = wet feet = sick Lyndsay, I eventually had to cave and get a pair. A white pair with red polka dots. A cute pair.
Nonetheless, I’ve only worn them twice and they sit forlornly in the corner of my bedroom, gathering dust.
Now the rain is back with vengeance and, after getting soaked from head to toe by two buses AND a car today, I’ve been stealing a glance every so often in their direction…
Hmmm…
