Drenched

It rains a lot in the west of Scotland. So far this year there have been two dry(ish) days, the rest dominated by howling gales and horizontal rain.

I blame the Americans for this. After all, the depressions develop in the Gulf of Mexico and hurtle across the Atlantic with a little encouragement from the Jet Stream. Chuck and Wilma are happily ensconced in their Florida villa congratulating themselves on their escape from frozen northern climes. It doesn’t occur to them to spare a thought for Scots shivering beneath their eiderdowns. Some people just lack empathy.

I’m convinced that the melancholy Celtic temperament, and propensity for consuming vast quantities of whisky/vodka/rum, is an inevitable outcome of foul winter weather. Opening the curtains to another morning of torrential downpours and gales aspiring to hurricane status is enough to get anybody down.

I suppose being confined indoors watching daytime television does have a few meagre compensations. Snack foods may be consumed on the sofa, and the hundreds of DVDs purchased on a whim from Amazon viewed at ones leisure.

I’m thinking of moving to Vladivostok. It might freeze my bollocks off, but at least it won’t rain every day; and the vodka should be cheaper.