wet, whinge, woe is us

This heavy rain is supposed to last all day, and certainly went on all night, hammering on the roof and making me dream awful dreams, of leaks in all the rooms (including several that don't actually exist in this house), of water dripping onto my bed, and giving me the most intense headache on waking. But the roof held, despite its pressing need for the overhaul planned for August.

The wind is driving the rain horizontally now. It's cold and bleak, and despite a sweater, I have had to put the heating on, just for a guilt-laden hour, you understand. More than ever, I yearn for a wood-burning stove, that most comforting of all sources of domestic warmth.

The rain-hating dog is beside me, tightly curled in that particular position that denotes misery; bored cats wander miserably from cat flap to front window - yes, the weather is awful at both sides of the house - and I have to go out shortly, to shop in Sainsbury's, the supermarket that specialises in the iciest aisles ever. People preparing for Arctic exploration shop there in order to acclimatise to extreme cold. The car park is full of deep pools of water, so you enter with wet feet, and the trolleys drip, so that small icicles might form before you've finished in the dairy aisle.

My sister emails me from her Greek island; the heatwave continues; she is having a wonderful time. There's something most unfair going on here.