Wednesday, 17 May 2017

Rainy

God I love the rain.

I was just walking back from Canary Wharf (please disregard this as a clue to my whereabouts if you wish to find my location and do me harm... to everyone else: yes, I live quite close to Canary Wharf) and my feet were slipping and sliding round in my ballet pumps (a problem I've had since ballet pumps became the spring/summer/autumn footwear of choice for 95% of English girls about 12 years ago - surprised they haven't sorted it out yet with some kind of water-repellent insole) and my hair was stuck to my face and my jeans were clinging to me and my coat was soaked through (the same thin 'parker' coat Amo lent me the money to buy when I first moved to Paris... it took me ages to pay her the money back, because that first year I got paid monthly, in cash, and every time she came to visit from Disneyland she never picked the day I got paid on, which was pretty much the only time of the month I was guaranteed to have a pocket stuffed* with crisp fifty euro notes) but I was thoroughly enjoying myself because - and I literally just said this in the first line of the blog post but I'm saying it again for effect - I just love the rain.

Phew. I bet you thought that parenthesis-peppered paragraph would never end. (Alliteration always reminds me of writing stories in Primary School. The lovely lion lolled around lusciously! Oh my god. I've just had deja vu. Have I said that exact same thing before in a blog post??)

STOP!

This is why I don't blog anymore, because I have so much to say that it comes out like a stream of lunacy/consciousness.

Basically, I was walking over the little bridge at Canary Wharf - it's quite futuristic especially in the rain when everything is slick and darkened, it reminds of La Defense - and I thought I'd really like to blog about the rain.

I guess I'm talking about spring/summer rain in particular.

I love the smell of it, before during and after, I love suddenly noticing how green everything is. I'm listening to the rain pour down outside as I type, and the sweet sound of birds singing underneath the sounds of falling water. The air feels fresh. Colours of the trees and buildings seem richer and more saturated, everything feels alive.

The thing is, it never rains in London. And I notice when it rains, so I know.

OH MY GOD the rain is so nice. I feel so vibrant, I couldn't wait to get off the tube and walk home in the rain, getting drenched and being surrounded by the noise and smell of a rainstorm. Well it isn't a rainstorm, but it is raining a lot.

I listened to a radio program once about people's accents reflect the landscape they live. So Welsh people have melodic voices that go up and down like the Valleys, Manchester people (used to) have quite nasally voices caused by the pollution from the cotton mills, and people living in the Midlands sound flat, like the flat landscape around them.

I'm wondering if it's the same with rain. You see it never rains in the South, and a lot of Southern people are quite dry.

Not the people I know, who like fancy dress and telling stories and going to sex techno nights with men on leashes (I won't tell you who it is, but it starts with a B) - and I don't even want to set those things as the barometers for being 'not-dry' because everyone's different and you can be 'not-dry' (moist? wet? both sound terrible) in so many different ways and yet.

And yet a lot of people in London are DRY.

I can't even explain why.

I could talk to someone about them buying a house, or about work, and it would be interesting. You talk to someone else about the same things and it's the most boring thing in the world. I guess people are dry and hard to talk to when there's no self-deprecation. I think that's it - if someone's telling you that they are really good at their job and then don't quantify it with a story about how they once slipped on a dog poo or something, then there isn't anywhere for the conversation to go.

I feel like this has been a really mean blog post but it's not about anyone in particular, I was just enjoying the rain and the thought came to me about how dry places beget dry people.

HAHA.

I've just thought about all the dry places in the world that have really vibrant cultures. I'll shut up.

Oh my god. Forget everything I just said.

I'm tempted to delete all of that but I want to try a new thing where I just write without editing and then maybe I can write more on Left Bank Manc.

So I'll leave it there for now. Please don't tell anyone what I said about dry places and dry people. I didn't mean it. I love London and I've met so many nice people, it's just sometimes I end up in the worst conversations with people and I'm normally not that bad at conversing. I'm never bad if I've got someone moist/wet to bounce off.

Let's stop there.

*if you can stuff a pocket with twelve notes... actually that sounds like a lot. I'll let myself have that. Although if I'm being picky the notes were normally hidden in rolled-up socks in my drawer and I'd only ever take one or two out... But I'm not being picky - back to the intro we go! Unless you're reading this at the end of the blog post... In which case, can you even remember what this asterisk is about??

1 comment:

  1. I' glad you're back! I love your streams of lunacy.
    Amy
    x

    ReplyDelete