There are the harried umbrella characters, narrowly missing an eyeball here and a head there, walking without care towards a direction unknown. Struggling against the wind, they fight as their brollies are pulled back and they are showered with water. The remains of these broken brollies are left to die in rubbish bins, searching for a new home, a new life.
There are the boot wearing women, who pull out a pair of leather enclosed heels, hoping that holding their feet in captivity will stop the water from getting in their precious toes. Later in the day the lining of their soles gives way and water seeps into the footbed, leaving them in squelchy mess.
There are those who pull out the hiking gear from the cupboard. I am one of these types, born of practicality. My office uniform changes to a high-tech raincoat and brown hiking boots, trying best to disguise these features with pretty accessories. It is a successful, yet daggy way to escape the rain, as pellets pour past my hooded face.
Unfortunately there are some, who for one reason or another, did not check the weather forecast and trusted the deceptively blue skies of the morning. Dressed for yesterday’s weather, they are the thong wearers, the T-shirt dressers, usually coupled with wet, pruned feet. They pretend not to be cold but their foot stamping and arm crossing belies their plight.
Finally, there are those who simply get wet, with no concern for themselves. They run merrily through the rain, splashing in puddles, turning their heads to the sky and slurping down great gulps of water. These ones are often followed by booted mothers, crying “James, put your coat on! James, you’ll catch a cold!” But neither James nor Sarah nor Mustafa nor Irene will be moved from the pot hole where thousands of drops have gathered in a pond ready for stomping, stamping and splashing.
Oh the days of youth, where rain was a friend and cold a joyful companion.
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