"The worst thing," said Louise, looking out of the window, "is when you're wearing glasses."
The rain was streaming down outside and the sky was so grim, it may as well have been actual night time.
"You can't wipe them on anything because everything is soaking. You end up more blind than you are without them; then when you arrive wherever you're going, they steam up and you still can't see anything."
It's a fair point. Then again, how beautiful is the rain? Tiny spherical droplets of water, coalescing thousands of feet in the air and silently falling into our world, ready to trickle down into the sea and be carried back into the unending circle of life once again.
I sat in the conservatory yesterday as it hammered down on the roof. I threw my head back and looked up at the grey sky and the shimmering water cascading across the glass. It was rippling with beauty and elegance, a transparent work of art that only I could see.
Then there was the thundering sound of the rain bouncing and flicking and marching and pounding, as melodious and as relaxing as ever it was, drenching the garden plants and trickling into the water butt. And there I was, sitting in a wicker chair in a warm house with a cup of tea.
I've got lots to be thankful for. I can moan and complain about how outrageously difficult it's proving to be able to buy a home of my own, yet the truth is it's already a miracle that I've got this far. So many people in this world don't even have a place to shelter, let alone a sturdy building with walls and a roof. Then there are a whole load of other people who would love to have the opportunity to buy a place but probably feel like it won't ever be a possibility for them.
That's why I don't mind the rain so much today. Sure, I've forgotten my umbrella again - and my car is at home. Yes, I'll probably be drenched and it'll be unpleasant but it's not worth getting grumpy about. And anyway, when you really think about it, rain is quite a beautiful thing.
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