Intrepid Optimist is the place where I can share my stories; fact, fiction and thoughts from the past and present. It’s Written by myself for people who believe adventure knows no age
Even before getting out of bed this morning I felt more jaunty than my usual self. I could not understand why I was feeling so bright and breezy and so early, until I realized – it was raining. Not trickling but beating forcefully on my bedroom window and I sensed its chill.
Nothing to be happy about I hear you cry and I can quite understand that unless you live in one of the world’s arid zones, rain is not something you will get excited about; certainly not on a Monday morning. You may even be one of those cynics who believe…
The rain, it raineth on the just
And also on the unjust fella;
But chiefly on the just, because
The unjust steals the just’s umbrella*
For myself, this morning’s rain is the first sign autumn is on the way and that season, not the virgin spring or the hot bloated summer, is my favourite one. Don’t get me wrong. I am not desirous for the sensuous colours of autumn leaves of the poets. It’s the rain, drizzle, dampness and mists that make me wax lyrical.
A psychic friend told me this phenomenon – her word – is due to where one was born or lived in the accumulative years of childhood. There could be some truth in this as my Ecuadorian born wife and our three children yearn for warmer climes.
If this so it would be the Wales of my father and his forbears and the cold northern England on my maternal side which would account for my quirky longings. Rain was the essential background scenery for Snowdonia and the bygone slate quarries of Blaenau Festiniog and the dampness of Lancahire’s past, dark and satanic mills.
I no longer live in Manchester, the place of my birth but I well recall the late nineteen-fifties, when the industrial pollution still had us living under its blanket of black rain and thick grey fog. I loved even the soot stained buildings and was quite taken aback when I once returned and could not recognize the Gothic Town Hall, which had been steamed cleaned to its orignial reddish, brown colour.
This morning however, I shall happily resuscitate and unfurl my choice, black umbrella and beneath it saunter through the precipitation to my local bistro, where I shall sit on the covered terrace and observe less contented folk scurrying about their business.
My much loved waitress tells me I am the only customer she knows who is always smiling when it rains on a Monday.
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