I'm standin' in the rain,
I'm waitin' all alone
I'm so tired, I wanna go home.
I'm standin' in the rain,
Getting soakin' wet
I'm doin' my best,
But what do I get.
I'm standin' in the rain,
Can't seem to get along
People rushing by,
Wish they could hear my song.
I'm standin' in the rain,
It's teemin' down on me
Cats and dogs, I wanna be free.
I'm standin' in the rain,
Doin' my thing
I'm tryin' my best,
But what does it bring.
The good intentions and the pain,
Lay drowned now in the pouring rain
I tried to be so good this time
But here I am under the sky.
Sometimes you know you should have stayed in bed. I sure wish I had this morning. It is 9:15pm and I am standing, waist deep, in a river of human effluence, with a cat on my head and a dog under my arm. I know the cat's still there because its frightened claws are still embedded in my skull, and I know the dog's still there because it might only be small, but it's also very eager to say hi to the cat. Here's what happened.
My name is John Hackerman, and I work for the Yorkshire Fire Service. The weather has been typically British of late (rain), with some very freak incidents thrown in too (more rain). The result is a Nation who have hosepipe bans as soon as three summer days run together, and the now traditional, flooding of the River Ouse. The water table couldn't take it and rain water churned with mud like syrup down the high street.
We were called out to assist in the evacuation of the homes affected when the river burst it's banks. However, the water demanded our attention and the Fire Engine became another impromptu dam, letting the Ouse ooze past an unstoppable drunken path.
By now, pretty York is pretty smelly, restless drain dirt reanimated like the Christopher Lee of all nightmares. The local houses toy with sandbags for a minute or two. Ruined carpets and toys soon turning gently on the living room tide, as it laps up provisions from the dogs bowl.
"Save Cupid!" A not-so frail old lady screamed at me, from a commandeered park rowing boat. Before I could even ask who Cupid is, she threw a rat-sized fur ball at me, which knocked my fireman's hat off into the sludge. I wrestled with gravity for a while, but I caught the terrier. Meanwhile, her ship has sailed and she waved, grinning at her abandoned dog.
I must have stood still a little too long. When I moved, my boot was lost. Bare, stockinged foot suspended in silt, I fought the urge to gag as I used reluctant toes to tentatively explore the horrors of the deep. No. My boot is a victim of the flood. It took all my will power to right myself and take weight on it. The fetid goo wriggled between my toes as more rain fell.
The radio sparked to announce I would be picked up as soon as was practicable. Shortly after a tree bound cat decided I looked more promising as a means of escape, as I moved slightly more quickly than an Ent, and landed on my head.
Now we're almost up-to-date, except to tell you about the boat load of journalists who made sure the photographers snapped me, even if they couldn't save me. Tomorrow's headline? I'm guessing it will be something rather clever like, "Cats and Dogs in Yorkshire".
(488 words) |
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