Rainy day

It was hot.

And then on the sixty-fifth day did come the rain. And the country did explode with joy, and much was the rejoicing thereof, although we didn’t get to see the blood moon which was a bit of a swiz.

And it did rain equally on Re-moan-ers and Brex-it-eers alike, but quench the ire of either side it did not.

And while the sun had proper blazed forth for absolutely bloody ages with much moaning from all present, yet even when the rain had been going for just a couple of hours did the rain-moaning begin. And I did tut and I did roll my eyes and I did despair of the human race, which is becoming a bit of a habit these days.

And on the first day of the rain did our holiday begin, because obviously.

And lo the next afternoon did I sit upon the sofa and channel-hop, which is a much more longwinded process than it was in the 1970s, let me tell you.

And then did I stumble upon Saturday afternoon telly gold, for there was Victoria Wood, alive and well, presenting a programme about Dad’s Army, and I did think for a second that I had fallen into a time warp, and a jolly good thing that would have been let me tell you.

And thereupon did I sink deeper into the sofa, knowing that a good time would be had by all.

And so it came to pass.

And I did say ‘you stupid boy’, and I did say ‘we’re doomed’, and I did say ‘they don’t like it up ’em’, and I did say ‘don’t tell him, Pike!’, and great was the satisfaction thereof, and I did rejoice in warm cuddly feelings because John le Mesurier.

And the next day did the rain come again. Proper pelting it down, it was.

And thus did I know that the holiday had begun.