English rain

So much for it not raining much. Made up for it this weekend.
We had 80 mph gales and lashing rain for about 24 hours.
The big windows in this old house rattled and the inside doors banged and strained against the wind. Big raindrops plopped on our bedroom attic windows all night long, sometimes in a torrent, other times slow and fat.
No wonder Turner, so good at painting gales and massive waves and horizontal rain, was British. (Saw the Turner show yesterday at the Tate gallery near Westminster).
What other nationality could he have been?
I don't mind big weather like that.
It sweeps over the British isles and then goes on its way somewhere else.
It's the drizzle that drives me nuts.
When you don't really know if it's raining or not.
Well you do. But you don't want to admit it.
After the big rain, the drizzle set in.
My son and I were out in it.
I only had a big umbrella, which is stupid, of course, but I had misplaced my little one (or my three little ones) that fit into my bag.
For me, it was definitely raining.
When your hair is getting wet, and you're a woman, it's raining. Pretty simple.
All the women on the high street were under umbrellas, although admittedly their umbrellas were about a third of the size of mine.
My son insisted it wasn't raining.
Fine.
All the men in the street seemed to not be under umbrellas, shielding themselves behind flimsyly-upturned collars or pulled-up sweatshirt hoods instead.
This is a basic difference between men and women. Umbrellas.
Anyway, since my umbrella was so huge, I had to walk significantly behind my son -- or risk putting one of his eyes out.
And my hair got wet anyway -- and so quickly looked like shit -- because it got wet before I put my umbrella up.
While I too was saying it wasn't raining.