I got a ‘lectric bike. You know that.
I love it like the 3rd cousin I never had.
I only use it when the temperature is over 15 Celsius-es and the weather GUARANTEED to be dry. By God. Or the BBC weather app. Same difference. That’s the rule.
I hate all rules.
Even sensible ones.

And so to yesterday. When the weather app told me there was ‘a chance of rain’, like 15%, maybe 20% in the late afternoon. Yet as I prepared to go to work it was the definitive summer day. Warm, bit balmy, sunny, clear, cloudless. The temptation was just too great. So I broke the rule. And had a wonderful trip in. Fun, fast and furious. The latter being most of the drivers I encountered. My only defence being ‘fuck em’.

As I was about to leave work, the sky had indeed darkened. Ah, so ‘20%’ means it can happen. And there was a tiny little ‘shower’, which I waited out, then left to come home just as the sun came out again. Great timing. I survived the 20%, now I’m good to go.

And I was fine and good and lovin’ it, as always, as I came up into Hampstead village. When a few droplets landed on me. Ok, no problem. Nearly home and, being ‘sensible’ I had my little, almost waterproof Uniqlo scrunched up in the back box. I retrieved it, brought it back to jacket size (they’re amazing those things) and carried on, my wayward son.

I blame the BBC. And God. Because the rain that followed was not 20% in any fucking language. I know, that was the ‘chance of rain’ but have some sympathy, FFS, I’m pedalling up the hill, as fast my electric motor can carry me, getting rather wet. I reckon we were up to 80%, if not more!!!

And then, ‘more’ happened. As I rode around the Heath Extension, rain levels rose to 264% and as I felt my testicles getting soaked through my jeans, my shoes saturated, the Uniqlo’s ‘water-resistance’ laughing at me in the quite unbelievable torrent, I thought, oh well, I’m wet now, its strangely warm, like a tropical storm, this is as bad as it can get, I can put up with it for the 4 minutes to home.

But, ‘bad as it can get’ needed a rethink as the rain turned to hailstones. Big ones. Yet still small enough to go through the ventilation slats on my helmet. And they fucking hurt.

Mel wouldn’t let me in the house. I was dripping. I stripped off completely at the front door and was put in the tumble dryer. Ok, my jacket was. All I got was a towel. I must be losing my physical appeal.

I’ve written to the head of the BBC. And to God. And next time it says ‘small chance of rain’, probably best to ask the question: yeah, but how much rain?

Happy dry, sunny Tuesday

A xxxx