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Rated: ASR · Non-fiction · Personal · #1987606
My feelings about the rain.
Rain.  My enemy.  My nemesis.

I am indifferent to how it falls – sideways in vast sheets, heavy and loud in thick droplets or lightly, barely there, almost like a moving mist.  In any shape and form I abhor it.  Its presence sickens me, dulls my senses until I feel like a ghost moving through a memory, devoid of ambition or desire.  The thought of it leaves me cold and jaded.  As dark clouds collect in the sky, so they pass through my mind with their misery, their promise of a ruined day or a spoilt evening.

It is Easter Sunday and it is raining.  It has rained since the moment I awoke and pulled back the curtains to the sound of my heart sinking.  I am eating a Crème Egg, but it is doing little to dispel the gloom.

I must live in one of the dampest countries on Earth.  I should have been born in Spain – or Africa, although naturally I should feel grateful because there are probably people in Africa who would give anything for a downpour right now.  Like the World’s wealth, nature is unfairly balanced.

I have a phobia of rain touching me.  At all times I carry an umbrella in my handbag - even when going on holiday – a fact not quite as absurd as it may seem, since when I arrived in Gran Canaria on a recent trip it was, in fact, raining.  On a night out, feeling the briefest brush of a raindrop whilst moving from one bar to the next, I will whip out the contraption like an explorer may unsheathe his knife in the jungle.  Like many of my personality traits, my friends find it ridiculous, yet tolerable for the sake of our companionship.

Easter Sunday.

The rain has won.  It has become its own stereotype, fulfilled the prophecy of  bank holiday weekends in England.  The seeds I had planned to plant remain untouched next to the sealed bag of compost.  Unwashed sheets stare at the dripping clothes line.  All along my street, beer gardens sit vacant and abandoned, unopened barbeques wait patiently in cold conservatories and children no doubt in living rooms squabble over the remote.

Ombrophobia.  A completely rational fear in my book.

I must employ that eternal British optimism: Maybe tomorrow, we will have sunshine.

*Rain* *Sad* *Rain* *Sad* *Rain* *Sad* *Rain* *Sad* *Rain* *Sad* *Rain* *Sad* *Rain* *Sad* *Rain* *Sad*

(387 words)
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1987606