Dripping

It's like God (I do realise that precipitation is not a divine phenomenon, ta very much. Do you mind if we go with it?) is a repressed fucker standing at the urinal in the local after a couple of Fosters, praying (can He do that?) that the bloke next to Him will not have a bladder the size of Canada and will finish sometime soon so that he can have a little privacy. He could of course unleash a thunderbolt, or - if the Zeus thing is a bit crass for Him - just be omnipresent and move (simultaneously and instantaneously) to a time when He is pissing. Like a Horse. At the same time, He could be having sex with a virgin I suppose, which does throw up some interesting (if not already well explored - even hackneyed - via internet pr0n) ideas

But He doesn't. The dark clouds loom above and I left my bike in the underground garage at work for no good reason (apart from a nagging pain in the small of my back) in anticipation of a Noah-esque deluge. Then it was down the park with the kids for a kick about, and the odd spot made a pathetic attempt to douse the scorched earth, but never produced that Peter North moment. I settled down to watch a decent bit of 5 a side in the court, but didn't get anything there either. Blacks v whites and it was shite - largely because of some really annoying fans sitting close by me.

As I write, the sky is still lowering and the only dampness in the house (and even outside) is down to my sweat glands.