Ach, well, it had to be too good to last. Storms arrived in London like the wrath of god last night, or as near to it as we can get in a north European country. As the train pulled out of Victoria station the darkness made it feel like dusk and the air had a charge to it that you could taste on the tip of your tongue.
Or that might have just been the smell from the pasties several passengers were eating, either way it was obvious that we were about to pay the price for the unseasonal sunshine we'd had.
There was a flash, and rain mixed with hail suddenly drummed on the roof making the passengers packed inside all jump at the same time like sardines trapped in a tupperware box that, er, was having a steady stream of gravel slowly tipped onto it.
Of course, with a reliability that commuters only fantasise about being applied to the published timetable, the train ground to a halt. A bit of rain and stormy weather and the country seizes up but as quickly as it started it stopped and by the time we got to Beckenham there was little evidence it had happened.
Similarly, when I left home this morning it was raining so hard that I actually dug out my waterproof coat that I only wear in such bad conditions as it makes me look, and sound, like a giant bag of crisps. When I got to work though on the other side of the city there hadn't been a drop.
And this, my loyal foreign readers, is why we Brits are so fond of talking about the weather, because, like property prices, council tax and golden jubilee celebrations, what is happening in one street isn't necessarily what's happening in the next...
