So, who invited you?

Days had blurred filled with grey skies and rain that was reaching serious soaking levels that almost had me googling for the nearest distribution centre for an anorak. And no, I don't mean some weedy nerd type who is obsessed with some yawn-aching subject that deserve the attention by any stretch of the most limited imagination. Anorak, as in a waterproof jacket that most likely only comes in banana yellow or moss green. But luckily for me and my street cred, there were occasional cracks in the thick grey polyfilla in the sky so I didn't both with the added expense.

Don't get me wrong. I love the rain. And I totally adore those days when inside your head, there are visions of fitness and delight as you mentally prepare yourself for that long awaited 30 kilometre trek to the nearest bakery serving double whipped cream apple turnovers and you are mid-bend, squeezing into the drainpipe drips that are those sporty type leggings only suitable for leggy models who are yet to taste the oily delight of melted butter on the tip of the tongue when, risking a half-hearted hernia you stand to pull the last of the lacerating lycra over your bountiful buttocks and you see streaks running down the windows. You pause. Running an absent minded backhand over your brow. No, you may have struggled to get your peachiness into the sporty attire, but you ain't sweating that much. It looks like rain dear. Ah, shame.

Yup. I LOVE those days. Nothing to do but watch wetness lash against the windows, whilst you pace inside limbering up (just in case you actually do have to step outside and walk).