Heatwaves

No, I’m not enjoying the sun. 

I was made for caverns. Caverns, tunnels, tube stations and Anderson Shelters. 

When I am in possession of sufficient wealth I will buy myself a bolt-hole in the country. This bolt hole will be bored deep into the side of a mountain: a glabrous temple of shimmering damp. It will descend into the mantle of the earth until that goldilocks zone of coolened peacefulness is reached. There I will make myself a cup of tea and practice my singing. On occasion, I will trek to the entrance and survey the flesh-knobbled lands before me. I will place my hands on my hips and laugh heartily, like in a Scottish Tourist Board advert.

But it’s not something that I can easily admit to in polite company.

“I prefer the rain,” I say.

“You are deeply disturbed,” they say. 

They don’t really say that. I’m exaggerating for comic effect. 

They actually say:

“Yeah…sometimes I like the rain., especially when I’m tucked up in bed and I can hear the rain against the window. Real cosy.”

Which is irritating, because I like that too and I’m special. So I say:

“There’s nothing like walking through town with your jeans soaked-through, your hair plastered to your forehead, and your feet making fungal soup in your trainers.”

“It can definitely be invigorating,” they say.

“It’s the rheumatoid arthritis that I like.”

“You are deeply distubed,” they say.

I place my hands on my hips and laugh heartily, like in a Scottish Tourist Board advert.

But seriously, I have tried to analyse why it might be that I am so helio-adverse.

Like the best neuroses, it stems from childhood:

If it was sunny, people went outside and played football; if it was raining, people stayed inside and played board games. 

I have no real interest in getting rained on, all I want is to play Scrabble.