There’s rain on the weather forecast for tomorrow.
Which is amazing.
It’s showing as a maximum of a 50% chance, but there’s still rain on the forecast.
Now, I’m not saying I’m planning anything – or have been planning anything – but now I know what time it’s due I intend to make the most of it.
So there’s a reasonable chance that I will be standing on my back patio in just my pants at 5pm tomorrow in the hope that summer rains will fall and wash away the heat from my clammy, sweat-ridden body.
I mean, obviously it won’t.
If it rains at all it will be a pitiful little pitter-patter. It won’t be the bouncing angels of huge drops slamming into the ground with vigour. It won’t even be that fine rain that wets you through. It will just be that rain where you go “oh, was that it?” after you’ve dashed from the house to get in everything from the washing line.
Okay, so I might not be in my pants, but I do fully intend to stand within its watery embrace. Maybe even turn my face to the skies like they do in the movies. That is, of course, if any precipitation isn’t sucked from the atmosphere by any and all plant life in the vicinity which is currently walking a fine line between life and death. Stuff is dying all over the shop and I’m complaining about a build up of sweat in my bum crevice.
In fact the next ten days or so are littered with rainy days. It’s practically a return to form for tradition British weather. Although, of course, it’s not that simple. It’s very much a boy, nun, boy, nun scenario – there’s rain, then a day of blazing sun. Just enough to not only confuse your plant life but also to just kick it into that period of rampant growth it’s been sitting on for the past couple of weeks so that the next time you look out into your garden, in our case at least, everything has been swallowed up by ferns, like the rainforest reclaiming lost land.
Obviously, it needs to stay warm for a little longer because we in the Kirklees area are having a bin strike. No rubbish will be collected for a week, at least by bin men (or women) in the union. Collections are supposed to be arranged, but by next week Huddersfield could look like the opening scenes of Wall-E. Except without the fun little robot.
If there’s two things that go together really bloody well, though, it’s hot weather and garbage.