It was one of those things that my father failed to tell me about, like not counting your sausages before they're in the bag. On Tuesday, I got up, abluted, moved my trusty steed onto the balcony and stared gloomily into the rain, as it descended like a sheet of frosted plastic in a cheap shower. After rummaging through the pannier, I retrieved my waterproofs, put on some waterproof shoes (ones without a webbing upper and cracked soles) and put my overtrousers on..... took off my overtrousers, took off my shoes, put on my overtrousers and then put on my shoes. Jacket. At the bottom of the stairs I ventured into the steady downpour and headed off for work, halfway there the jacket started to let in the rain, and dampness crept down from my shoulders with all the determination of snot leaking from the nose of a two year old. As I arrived at work, literally at the front door, the rain stuttered, then stopped. I stabled the bike, dripped my way to the office, and dug out the spare trousers and socks, the office festooned with drying garments like a laundry Christmas.
On Tuesday night I washed the jacket to within an inch of its life and then treated it to a liberal douching of waterproofing.
On Wednesday, I got up, abluted, moved my trusty steed onto the balcony and stared suspiciously out at the banks of cloud scudding overhead. I compromised and donned the jacket leaving the overtrousers in the pannier. Five minutes later it started to rain. This time it did not stop as arrived at the front door. Once again the office looked like Primark on a Saturday afternoon.
On Wednesday evening, I released my trusty steed from its stable and approached the front door of the building, outside people walked with umbrellas, the puddles were dotted with bullseyes. I returned to dig out the overtrousers, which I donned with much swearing. I reemerged, people were furling their umbrellas, the puddles displayed a mirror-like surface. Disdaining to profane the air of the sacred halls of academe any further, I set off, still sporting my torture trousers. As I approached home, I looked to the south and west, a bank of cloud was rolling in like a tsunami on a hapless fishing village, under normal circumstances this sight would have filled me with joy, sadly I had to buy some bread.
As I left the supermarket, the heavens, as they say, opened, the sort of deluge that would have warmed the cockles of General De Gaulle's heart, luckily I was wearing my freshly waterproofed waterproofs. As I turned into the drive of the flats a few minutes later, the run-off from my waterproof trousers filled my trainers, running out through the crack in the sole. The run-off through my helmet trickled down my brow after dissolving all the salt accumulated since the last monsoon, the resultant brine putting the Dead Sea to shame, the sort of brine that could pickle a herring at forty yards, or slough off a grown man's cornea in under a minute. So it was I carried the bike up the four flights of stairs by Braille, and then sat down to my bruschetta, admiring the way that my hair had been sucked up through the vents in my helmet by my speedy passage and had then set into the trichological equivalent of the enchanted forest, the Sleeping Beauty one as opposed to Smurfland.
Moral: Some people are lucky and some are unlucky, if you're the latter you're fuc..... not in for a great time.
On Tuesday night I washed the jacket to within an inch of its life and then treated it to a liberal douching of waterproofing.
On Wednesday, I got up, abluted, moved my trusty steed onto the balcony and stared suspiciously out at the banks of cloud scudding overhead. I compromised and donned the jacket leaving the overtrousers in the pannier. Five minutes later it started to rain. This time it did not stop as arrived at the front door. Once again the office looked like Primark on a Saturday afternoon.
On Wednesday evening, I released my trusty steed from its stable and approached the front door of the building, outside people walked with umbrellas, the puddles were dotted with bullseyes. I returned to dig out the overtrousers, which I donned with much swearing. I reemerged, people were furling their umbrellas, the puddles displayed a mirror-like surface. Disdaining to profane the air of the sacred halls of academe any further, I set off, still sporting my torture trousers. As I approached home, I looked to the south and west, a bank of cloud was rolling in like a tsunami on a hapless fishing village, under normal circumstances this sight would have filled me with joy, sadly I had to buy some bread.
As I left the supermarket, the heavens, as they say, opened, the sort of deluge that would have warmed the cockles of General De Gaulle's heart, luckily I was wearing my freshly waterproofed waterproofs. As I turned into the drive of the flats a few minutes later, the run-off from my waterproof trousers filled my trainers, running out through the crack in the sole. The run-off through my helmet trickled down my brow after dissolving all the salt accumulated since the last monsoon, the resultant brine putting the Dead Sea to shame, the sort of brine that could pickle a herring at forty yards, or slough off a grown man's cornea in under a minute. So it was I carried the bike up the four flights of stairs by Braille, and then sat down to my bruschetta, admiring the way that my hair had been sucked up through the vents in my helmet by my speedy passage and had then set into the trichological equivalent of the enchanted forest, the Sleeping Beauty one as opposed to Smurfland.
Moral: Some people are lucky and some are unlucky, if you're the latter you're fuc..... not in for a great time.
