It is that time of the year when the greyness of the British climate really hits the New Yorker in my life hard. For the past few days we have been surrounded in a thick fog that seems to clear to allow the drizzle in.
Light drizzle is the Schrodinger’s cat of weather, you both need and don’t need an umbrella and as soon as you make your choice you’ll decide it was the wrong one. If it is going to rain I would prefer it to pour. I want a torrent of water cascading from the skies, it should be drumming on the windows, and most importantly I should be inside.
There is nothing better than being wrapped up warm while it is inclement outdoors. Firstly it allows you to appreciate the way modern life has produced a building from either mud or dead trees that is adorned with melted sand that keeps in the warmth produced by dead dinosaurs and you are covered in the hair of sheep or the seed casing of a shrub.
The windows may be streaking with droplets of water, but I’m sitting wrapped in a blanket cosying up with Mrs G on the sofa watching television. When the weather is gross outside it shows how nice the inside can be.
You don’t get this in the summer, it’s all hayfever and trying to keep cool. That’s why rainy autumn is the best, I can do something easy and tangible to feel better, and that is doing as little as possible. All it requires is a blanket, and as a 35 year old I feel comfortable in saying that.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Singin’ in the Rain.”
Safe inside, toasty warm, while water pitter-patters on the roof… describe your perfect, rainy afternoon.