It’s Time

Written by Prim on 10/12/2021

But It’s Gonna be.. Wet

The precipitation stakes between SE Asia and Blighty congeal in a startling single familiarity… it’s wet. Although there is a range of wetness. Contrasts run into seismic cat and dog-esque proportions loping from wet, dry, spitting, lashing, sideways, dripping, ‘little bitty stinging, big ol’ fat and sometimes it rains straight up’ scenarios to a recollection I experienced last week after it had seemingly rained for almost 364 consecutive days, where I was forced, forced damn you global warming, to fasten the second top button on my aloha short-sleeved shirt and tuck my flip-flopped plates in on the footrest of my scooter.

Personally I love the rain, the warm variety. Cold rain can do one. The British are very good at talking about the weather, but ripples of melancholic groans have recently been seeping from the rising steam of these here green jungles. ‘Ooh, it doesn’t usually last this long (yes, it bloody well does)’. In saturated sweats of a sleepless night the ever looming step to cold wet rain told me it was time to rustle up the endorphins, and I reached for: real beer, sporting venues, live gigs, eccentric waistcoats, ugh! And, By ‘eck, by blimminy, stone the crows, gawd bless yer, cor blimey, aye up, Iechyd da, hoots mon, eh eh eh, now then now then, phhh eh and blinkety-blimey it’s bucketing down it out there… and then all was well… soothed. The current bun’s out now and will be till precisely 11:15am 10 April 2022, whereby delirious minds shall echo the same thoughts of last week, ‘Gad it’s hot, pass the morphine sulphate Caruthers would you, there’s a good chap’.

I went to buy ice the other day, and as I drove back, not 5 yards, I passed a fake-sausage-on-a-stick stall whereby a little voice sprang from the bushes, ‘sawadee krap, sawadee krap’ I couldn’t see her at first, as she was quite literally in the bush, shading from the perilous sun (that had dried up all the rain, and incy wincy spi…), ‘sawadee krap’, so pleased came her welcoming tone once more, and I recognized her as our gardener’s mum who was approx 103 when she stopped raking in the cut grass and was now clearly put out to pasture herself. I don’t know why, but it reminded me of the little old lady who would discreetly squat having a pooh on the pavement round the corner from the pub in Saigon – but that’s another story.

Keep it turning, keep it wheel