I’m from England, where it rains from time to time.

I remember as a kid in the back of the car, following the drops on the windows as they jigged and jagged earthward, absorbing and engorging with brakes-failed momentum.

Or the November puddles on the black roads, which slobbered a wobbly red under the traffic lights.

The tipple of drops on my raincoat hood before they dripped onto my nose.

There was the almost rain, so fine I’d believe it wasn’t there – until I’d notice (surprise!) my sweater elbows soaked.

Sometimes the on-again, off-again showers – fooling optimists and keeping pessimists (so wise, such foresight!) at home.

And the sideways rain that spiked my bare legs like laser-pricks.

Creeping dampness around the collar (waterproof failure, that), the scent of soggy sheep, suspiciously warm downpours from nowhere.

Precipitation: So annoying. So unwanted. So spoil-my-party.

So interesting. So beautiful.