Strong hearts love rain
Still raining. But it's the good kind - fat raindrops that slap the tin roof, closely followed by thunder's ballsy booming and lightning's two cents.
So many kinds of rain, punctuated by memories: under the duvet rain, warm Bali rain, feels good to walk the dog in rain, mad dash to the car rain, hair plastered down your face rain, makes swimming in winter warm rain, good for the tanks rain, last card and monopoly rain, bach at Easter rain, chirpy chirpy cheep cheep and beach boys rain, Saturday netball rain (short skirts, purple goosepimply legs) that time walking home from a party and pashing under a tree rain, dancing in the rain rain, thank god it's raining because I'm seven months pregnant and it's so damn hot Fiji tropical rain.
Two (more) things I remember about rain: a snippet of London Underground poetry entitled: strong hearts love rain; and God knows I like to think I've got a strong heart. And, apparently there's no use running in the rain because you get more wet. I've never been so convinced on this one, but it's reassuring to smugly think about when you're striding with grace through rain while others scurry and slip and hold silly improvised umbrella type objects over their heads.