Josephine Picklesworth liked it when it rained. And not just the tiny droplets of mist type rain. She liked the bullets of water which bounced on the tin-roof of her mind like angry midgets, pissed they signed up for the Riverdance class.
It cleared the streets and slowed the traffic. It kept footballs from entering her garden and it stopped the rancid happiness stench of family barbecues from infecting her clean clothes.
On days of such complex misery for others, Josephine packed a sandwich, an apple, and a thermos of hot soup and danced through the washed out streets. She pranced and sighed along the empty flushed town centre. She Gene Kelly-ed all the way to the deserted park.
There she sang to the ducks, showered under the grey clouds and lay back on soaked picnic tables to feel the downpour full on her red cheeks.
But, like all things good and great, before she knew it, the sun would split the clouds and allow incy-bloody-wincy to climb back up the spout. The damned giggles of children arrived to deepen her frown and the world became chaotic once again.
‘Bastard,’ she grumbled and trudged home to sleep.