And Rain Interrupted Play

In England there are weather forecasts after the news broadcasts at 6, 9 and 10. A trained meteorologist gets up there with a moving map behind him or her and talks of low and high pressure belts and there are numbers and often swirls of white and blue indication clouds and the rain within them.

People watch or listen to these newscasts and behave accordingly. There was Michael Fish, who looked more like a physics teacher, but now they are more assured. There are women with shiny hair and men in shiny suits but their message still lacks levity. It is crucial information. DO WE PACK AN UMBRELLA IN OUR BAG TOMORROW? They don’t tell us what to wear, they don’t say “ bring out those cotton frocks tomorrow. “ Or “ long trousers might be too much for the next couple of days.” But everyone knows when that little yellow sun appears and the numbers creep up above 24 Celsius that they can have breakfast in the garden and lunch on a park bench. And then it happens. People get complacent, it is a friday night. Another warm and wonderful week and the weekend beckons with it’s July weddings and rooftop parties. London is awash with restaurants and cafes that have pushed out onto pavements, pubs with tables that have people standing in the evening sun with a pint or whatever sometimes spilling out into the street itself. Everyone knows it is summer, hooray! ties are in pockets, sleeves are rolled, shoulders are bare and umbrellas are a thing to be forgotten. But Saturday comes. This long anticipated day of rest …. The sky is grey and bulbous with dark clouds. It is on the cool side. I meet a friend at The National Theatre. We sit outside for a while, it is lightly drizzling but we stay and chat. Until we both decide we will have our second cup of something inside. After a few hours we part ways as she catches the last train home at 6.30pm. At Waterloo there are big signs with rolling information in orange telling you the time of departure, where it will end up, where it will stop on the way, if it is on time and eventually the platform it will leave from and everyone stands around with their eyes glued on it. Except on Saturday there is only one train on the board. And there is a woman’s voice on the tannoy, apologizing for the strike action but clarifying that this will be the last train that evening. There will be no further trains. My friend got the train, I walked across the river where I had tickets for a play.

And then, ladies and gentlemen, the dark clouds had their vengeance and released their troubled waters upon us all.

Gaggles of people who hadn’t paid attention to the heirs of Michael Fish warning them what Saturday would bring. Astonished by the audacity of a sky that would ruin their clothes and their hopes, battling their way to their meeting place in Piccadilly or their pic-nic in Hyde Park. The streets were full of women in strappy shoes and strappy dresses. Men were in T shirts and shorts. There were flip flops and Birkenstocks, there were evening dresses soaked around the hems. There were newspapers folded over heads in triangles to protect curls from uncurling. Plastic shopping held up like kites. There was a lot of sheltering under doorways and awnings. I had my little white borrowed umbrella in my backpack. I opened it up and picked my way through the streets pushing it in front of me as it threatened to turn inside out with the strong winds.

Some three hours later, when I came out from the theatre, Charing Cross Road was a river. The rain was bucketing down. The puddles underfoot were now ponds. There was a proper problem on the roads around Trafalgar Square. Buses, cars, taxi’s all jammed, coming into town..empty lanes going out. Nobody cared, everyone’s head was down as they looked for shelter. trying to work out how to get home.

So, not only had the heavens opened and released a November storm in July. And the train stations were without trains and there were no buses in sight. But London, at 11 o’clock of an evening, is a city that is putting chairs on tables, turning off lights and closing front doors. The tourists were confused and kept looking for options. The Brits just stood in the rain at the bus stops. Soggy and silent. Resigned to the waiting that comes with years of practice. When the number 88 bus arrived, there were no questions asked. Everyone just shook their umbrellas out and climbed on silently, not questioning the bus driver who was assuredly having a bad time too. Oh and the rain caused England to lose the ashes. I’m not going to try and explain that one.

The following morning was bright and blue. It was as if nothing had ever been other than summer. The End. Until next Time.