RAINING CATS AND DOGS AND OLD MEN

You know the old myth about Eskimos having 40 words for snow (it’s four, really) … well, the recent weather set me wondering how many words we have in this country for pissing it down (1), or merely drizzle (2).

Bloody rain (3). It slowed to the weather forecasters’ favourite ‘spits and spots’ (4) just before mid-day yesterday, so I thought I’d take the chance and go for my daily constitutional. I’d barely gone 50 yards when the spots became a heavy shower (5) and a cat in front of me dashed under the nearest hedge.

By the time I was up to the church, it was bucketing down (6) and I saw the verger in the porch praying. I was about to turn round when it eased off, so I brushed the drops off my nose and marched on. A few minutes later, when I was another half mile from home, suddenly it was coming down like stair rods (7).

I turned and almost bumped into the postman coming out of Mrs B’s place with a soggy, limp kagoul (we had heard rumours). Within yards the deluge (8) had become a torrent (9), a positive cascade (10), but not quite a cataract (11).

By the time I was back level with the church again, with the rain still persisting down (12), the vicar had joined the verger in the porch and they appeared to have started nailing planks of wood together.

Appropriately, it was now hammering down (13), and the cat had been joined by a dog, a hedgehog, and the old feller from No 4. Just proving that these days when it rains, it no longer rains just cats and dogs (14).

By the time I was back to the dry of our conservatory, it was alternately raining pitchforks (15) and coming down in sheets (16).

As I write this morning, the precipitation (17) has gone from a steady mizzle (18) to nothing. And now the sun is trying to come out. Hallelujah!

Just as well – 19 and 20 are unprintable.