August 16th, 2007


Things can only get wetter

I got soaked at lunchtime, halfway down High Street on a bike when the skies opened; my trousers got so wet that they looked (ironically) like waterproofs, slick as plastic. I stopped off in the magic charity shop (Sobell House on Little Clarendon Street: not much stock, smells of wee a bit, but has some ace bargain clothes) on the way back to work to buy some cheap dry clothes so I wouldn't spend the afternoon soggy and shivering, and actually spent long enough trying on other cheap dry clothes that my trousers were more or less dry by the time I got back to the office, though it had started raining again as I was wheeling my bike into its stand. Remembered to buy forks, forgot to buy the cat-shaped earrings. You win some, you lose some.

I'm fed up of getting wet every time I leave work, though: yesterday I ran round the corner to the newsagent around 10am to buy breakfast, and got drenched on the way back. Barely five minutes outside, I mean, what are the chances? Mind you, I also bumped into one of my former English tutors, and what are the chances of that, too? I didn't actually bump into her, of course, which was just as well as she was quite bump-heavy. Baby due today, apparently.

Anyway, so I'm on my way home after work & Oxfam, cycling in the not-rain for the first time today, thinking "well it may be tupping freezing but at least I'm not actually wet, and the sky's clear-ish, quite pretty actually, hello sky, hello clouds" and I'm about 200 yards from home when some knobheaded knob-end from Knob End (or perhaps Dean Court) throws a water-bomb at me from his car window. KNOBHEAD. Okay, that's not quite what I shouted, but close enough for a family journal. And frankly it would have taken too long to say "I've just come home from 11 hours at work, I'm cold and tired and now my trousers are soggy for the second time today, please turn your knobmobile round and drive right back here so I can stab you in the face with a fork." I mean, put like that, it's not much of an incentive, is it.

On the plus side, I now have an enormous bowl of pasta with tuna, courgette (home-grown from a friend's allotment), capers and olives, and I'm not (usually) a knobheaded knob-end. Could be worse, I guess.