Waterfowl

There's something rather endearing about British weather. I woke up to bright sunlight streaming through the sky window. Tad bit annoyed. I throw open the covers and windows in response to the stifling heat. Sky was a cloudless blue and it promised to be gorgeous day.


After brushing my teeth and a shower later, I was breakfasting on buttered toast over an article in the Economist. Interruption: soft, even patter of rain on the moss- and lichen-covered roof. The leaves on nearby trees danced gracefully to unseen winds whilst the grey clouds raced above.


Having packed everything after breakfast, I set off as the sun shone through a break in the clouds. The damp gravel crunched softly beneath my feet as diamonds glinting in the light of the sun showered down on me from the leaves as I made my way through Burrell's Walk.


Ten minutes before the train station, it begins to pour. All around me, people open their umbrellas and pull their raincoats over. I try my best to walk under the cover of the trees lining the road but within minutes, I'm drenched to the bone.


Anger overcomes me for a brief moment: it's easy to think that even the universe conspires against you. The feeling goes away just as quickly when I rationalize to myself that the universe is not conscious, let alone has intention. It's really least of my worries to be honest, albeit very uncomfortable and a pain up the arse.


Calling at its stations, I see people in short khakis and Bermuda shorts and polo shirts and t-shirts. Large black aviators offer protection from the glaring sun which has decided to show its face once more. Inside the train, I'm feeling slightly cold under my wet clothes as I roll my eyes at the irony of it all.