A few weeks ago, I blogged about hating the rains. This was followed by an inexplicable, and insufferable, hot and dry spell.
Feeling like a chastised Cassandra, I vowed not to blog about rain again till it, er, rained again, a lot, that is. I began to have visions of sweaty summers acutely panting for water, and, of course, I blamed myself for the drought-ful catastrophe. (When I was young I would always blame myself if I watched a match on TV and the team I supported lost – as they inevitably seemed to do. I guess this was a similar impulse.) I kept feeling horribly gulity, imagining accusing fingers pointing at me, raining insults, ra(i)nting and raving, "How dare you demean the rain-gods with your scurrilous posts? Begone, you scum of the (dry) earth, we banish you and your parchments to the parched rainless desert. That will be your just deserts."
Well, now it’s raining again, and I’m too thankful to crib, at least for the moment.