I am not speaking to the Weather Gods.
It has been a grey, almost-Autumn sort of day, cool but dry. I put my boots and shorts on to go for my walk this morning, because of weather grass and long swathes of cow-paddled mud. I was late because Elspeth had called for a post Bank Holiday catch up, and I had loafed around gassing instead of charging off, virtuously, up the fells, burning calories and strengthening muscles whilst also, conveniently, emptying dogs.
It is cheaper than the gym.
I pegged the washing in the yard on my return, because it was dry and a bit breezy, and ambled around doing the usual morning things, before settling down to a long phone call with a very helpful chap who advises people about how to deal with intransigent mobile phone companies, which, long-term readers might recall, is what we have got, never have anything to do with OneCom, you read it here first.
He was cheery and friendly, and I warmed to him very much. He promised to go away and look at the contract and even read the Terms and Conditions on my behalf. I was very grateful for this, because in common with every other member of the great British purchasing public, I never bother with those pages and pages of tiny print, and generally just scroll through them at high speed before clicking Agree at the bottom. Mea culpa.
I came off the telephone for the second time today feeling that really I needed to get on and make my life happen, lolling about chatting is all very well but will not earn me a place on the Housewives’ Glory Roll Of Great Achievers, so I dashed about going to the butcher and the Post Office and then yelled up the stairs for Oliver, who was also chatting on his telephone, it must be a specially sociable day.
He had promised that he would come with me to pick blackberries.
He hung about the kitchen waiting for a while whilst I faffed about organising myself. We loaded the dogs into the car, with some difficulty because of the broken boot catch, and set off.
We had barely gone past the end of the street before the first fat raindrops started to fall. We had just abandoned the car at the bottom of the fell when they started to come down in torrents.
We dived back to the car for umbrellas. I have always got several umbrellas in the taxi because people leave them there, along with mobile phones, bits of kebab, stray lipsticks and the odd pound coin. I generally distribute them to less organised people on wet days, the umbrellas, that is, not the rest of the clutter, which generally goes in the dustbin, except the cash, obviously.
Fortunately there were some umbrellas still there today.
It rained hard. We debated giving up before we even reached the first blackberry bush, but decided that it would probably stop, and soldiered on.
We continued soldiering on and the rain continued to fall.
We clambered up rocks and pushed through bracken and carefully navigated the thorns. Umbrellas are not the easiest things to manage under these circumstances, and after a while we dumped them, wearily resigned to becoming sodden.
After an hour we had several pounds of blackberries and a thorough appreciation of the Weather Gods and their sense of humour.
We were drenched, this time with purple fingers and a lot of scratches.
When we got home we were so wet and cold that I lit the fire, and we stripped our dripping clothes off and steamed, gently, in front of it, with a cup of tea in my case and a hot chocolate for Oliver, who is still trying to put on weight.
When we glanced up at the windows the sun was shining merrily, laughing its warm benevolence over Windermere.
Honestly, what an amusing interlude it was.
Me and the Weather Gods, how we all laughed. *
* I am perfectly well aware that this should read The Weather Gods and I, thank you, I just preferred the sound of it this way, and it is my diary so I will write what I like.
