Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens

Rain is a wonderful thing. I should probably qualify that in an endless number of ways - it may not be quite so great in the depth of the bleak midwinter for example - but I don't care. Rain rocks, especially now. I remember watching a BBC documentary years back, which began with a panning shot around a vast, barren desert, seemingly devoid of any living creature or any form of plantlife. Until the rains came. A glorious wave of water crashed down upon the rocky terrain, bringing every facet of the wilderness to life. Seedlings sprouted, eggs hatched, creatures consigned to a netherworld of sleep awakened. Everything sprang to life in a frenzy of activity, trying to squeeze in as much living as possible before the rains evaporated and the desert returned.

That's my sort of rain. Admittedly, it doesn't have quite the same effect on a city like London, which, as advertised, never sleeps, regardless of what the weather may be like, but it does enough to keep me pleased. London in the summer is dry and hot and humid, and the sunshine brings everyone out of hiding - much like a desert after the rain (and filled with a equally large variety of strange creatures). The streets throng with people bustling about doing things people do in London (I'm not certain exactly what, but they seem very intent on doing it), and the roads fill near instantly with cars. There's merriment to be made at such a time, but I've always preferred things a little quieter, such as during a downpour, when the streets are emptier and city holds its breath waiting for the sunlight to return. When, if only for a few brief hours, the pavements sparkle, and the dust and smog of the day washes away leaving the city smelling lemony fresh. [1]

I went out for a walk today, dressed as usual in a t-shirt and jeans (black) and passed by endless people huddling under umbrellas or cowering under hooded jackets as the rain pattered down on their heads. If it was cold I could understand why, but it was still a pleasant sort of day despite (or perhaps because) of the rain. I'm sure the belief that the rainfall is a bad thing is instilled into people from an early age, which I regard as something of a shame. It doesn't have to be like this. Cast out your hoods, throw away your umbrellas, and go, wander out in the rain.

Jump in a puddle. Get wet. Experience the elements properly. You might find you enjoy it. [2]

Given the title of this entry, I should probably add something about cats too. My flatmate, Kim, has taken semi-possession of extremely friendly animal which fails to answer to the name of Hannibal, though I'm assured that is his name regardless. Of course, given what I know of the nature of cats, it would probably be more technically correct to say that Hannibal has taken semi-possession of my flatmate Kim. He divides his time between this place and his other abode and is free to roam as he pleases.

Despite having the run of the flat, he displays a preference for sleeping in the hallway, just outside my bedroom. I personally suspect this is a trap of sorts, since when you stumble over him in the middle of the night, he looks rather upset until you bend down to placate him with a few minutes of industrious petting. But he still chooses the same place to rest each night - I remain convinced that this is all a cunning ploy on his part. Still I couldn't possibly stay upset with him for too long - he's an adorable creature, who will purr loudly and pleasingly at the slightest attention you show him. I suspect he's trying to claim ownership of me too, and quite frankly I'm tempted to let him. I do like cats after all.

Or is it that they like me...?

[1] This is an exercise in poetic licence. London to my knowledge has never smelled lemony fresh and likely never will. But it does smell better after the rain has fallen - take my word on that.

[2] But please don't catch pneumonia. That would be bad.