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How did the Porter scene begin in the Scottish play?  Rain. Rain. Rain?

No, Knock, knock, knock.”  I had to keep re-testing myself, as if checking that I was free of doping substances. I might have to revise my chosen subject if I were ever to appear on Mastermind, with earthrob, John Humphries.  He was the one with the wrinkly face like that canine breed whose name I could never remember.  Better not choose anything to do with dogs as a special subject.

Drip Drip.  Yes, if Andy hadn’t had to have the roof on, he might not have had to creep out his petty pace from day to day.  Victory was looking as likely as Birnam Forest coming to Dunsinane.  But, hang on!  A wood, or moving grove, DID come to Dunsinane. Think metaphorically, Andy.  Don’t lose any sense of irony you have.  Was Roger untimely ripped?- that could be the question.  Only one man of woman born could destroy Andy’s hopes and that was the gorgeous, hunky, balletic…. No, stop that! I reproached myself.  It’s tantamount to imaginative adultery.

For, yes, I have a husband.  Not that I would notice now that the Olympics were approaching.  He would probably watch every event, whether the rain continued or not  Why did he take such an interest in sport, when his personal exercise regime was restricted to removing a stubborn cork, or picking up The Financial Times from the newsagents which was all of a hundred yards away.

Yes, I would shed no tears if rain stopped play, flattened Boris’ hair and soaked every Trades unionist who might decide to march on the Millennium Dome, in spite of the missiles trained on them from residents’ roofs.  Talk about over-reaction.  Al Quaeda’s resolve would be as dampened as the rest of the inhabitants of these wondrous isles.  Even terrorists would be affected by SAD and the unremitting precipitation, so might seek sunnier climes.

And what about the economy?  What if we taxpayers had forked out all that dosh for a damp squib?  That Bob Diamond  banker guy could put something back in the collection plate- maybe a bonus or two.  Or Damien Hirst could stud a few financial wizards’ skulls with precious stones and flog them off for the nation’s benefit.

I had heard on the radio that George Osborne’s name was actually Gideon.  From what I remembered from Sunday School, Gideon had received divine signals by leaving a fleece out overnight and then inspecting it to see if it was wet or not.  There would be no guesswork in that activity this summer, but he might as well try to get some guidance on the economy.  Heaven knows, it would seem as good a strategy as any other.

Dry!  So, we should stay in Europe. Wet- I should probably apologise to Ed Balls.  I’ll just do best of three.

I sat down with a takeaway latte.

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012