project 52: water

An adored (and assumed) Uncle of mine uses a particular phrase with respect to our weather. He's often heard to proclaim that: In Scotland there are two seasons, Winter and July.

While his point of view is slightly skewed (having left many decades ago for the languid, sun-soaked charms of the Far East, South America and other enviable places) the sentiment holds true. In general, you can anticipate truly atrocious weather on any day of the year in Britain. And in Scotland in particular, you can expect to add 'bloody freezing cold' to that forecast. Even (though I hate to admit it) in July.

The Queen's jubilee in London last week was a washout. Wimbledon beckons, with its time-honoured fickleness. God knows what we have in store for all those well-travelled tourists during the Olympics.

But it's so b-o-r-i-n-g hearing everyone girn on about it (one of our many national failings is that there's simply nothing we like complaining about more than the weather). So we have another proverb here in Scotland, handed down through the ages, I think, by the prophet Billy Connolly. Translated from the original Glaswegian it goes something like this: There's no such thing as bad weather, only the wrong clothes.

And so, when a particularly gloomy friend of mine stated that the long-term forecast for our area was rain every day for the rest of this month, The Boss and I decided we'd better just go for a walk and make the best of it. She declared the puddles some of the best she'd ever jumped in.

Water, it seems we're in for some. Suck it up.

the corner of our street, now named "the welly bath"