Trying Not To Get Wet

Posted: May 15, 2013 in As If I Actually Ended Up Going To Uni

trying not to get wet



It is March, and something brilliant has happened.


I am in shorts.


I’ve done some great things in shorts. Like crossing the Atlantic. And making orangeade with lemonade and orange squash. We’re in a British heatwave – by which I mean some heat – and this is fantastic. Summer has gamed on.



It is April, and summer has gamed off. The scenery of Wolverhampton has returned to grey old skies mundanely supervising sombre zombie-like drones breathing in the faint essence of a spent country as it wisps around the air like an annoying slice of bees.


My shorts are back in the closet.


By which I mean the floor. My knees are hidden, and may no longer exist. I go onto Facebook, and watch people complain at summer’s timidity. I comment.


“At least it’s not raining. After all, it’s April. We’re meant to be getting April showers.”


I stop.


And shudder.


April showers! Unpredictable tropical storms! I don’t like getting wet. It makes me feel like I’m full of water. Like I’m made of the stuff. But it’s fine, because April’s been dry so far. I look at my coat. Locked away in his wardrobe-y alcove. And smile.

“It’s not gonna come to this. You will
never win. Until Winter.”


My phone starts dancing like a spider on a merry-go-round that’s been hooked up to an engine containing the world’s fastest rats. I pick it up, and find a text from next year’s housemate Jackson.


“You still up for going running, man?”


“Sure, man.”


“I’ll meet you downstairs in 10 minutes then, man?”


“Sure, man.”


I smile, and get into my PE kit. And look outside. At Wolverhampton. The wonderful town. The wonderful wet town. Oh no! It’s raining! It’s really raining! I text him back.


“You wanna run in the rain, man?”


“Sure, man. Do you?”


Humm. I hate getting wet, but if I wuss out now, Jackson will know I’m scared of water… forever. I decide to act manly, and give an assured response.


“You flipping well know I do, man, you big bint!”


He does not text back.


I run downstairs and spot him pointing at things in the foyer. We look at each other in a manly not-scared-of-water-and-in-fact-have-had-several-baths way, and step outside.


It’s raining.


It’s really raining.


“Let’s do this!”


Oh no!


I breathe. And do this. We run, and get wet… and… it’s brilliant!


Hang on… this isn’t right… this… is…


“Dan! It’s snowing, man!”


“What, are you serious, man?”


“Hang on… that’s not snow, man….”






“…Man! My nose! Something hit it!”


“It’s hailing, Dan, man!”


“It’s really hailing!”


We stop against a tree and nurse our faces. It’s serious hail! It’s probably Welsh, fat and a maths teacher; but we’ve started, so we’ll finish.

We carry on.


And get obliterated.


I get back to my room and stick on some Flight Of The Conchords to relax. It makes me thirsty, so I decide to head over to Asda for some creosote to fill in the holes in my body. I get re-dressed. And look at my coat. Locked away in his wardrobe-y alcove.


I smile.

“You will
never win!”


I head outside.

Into the rain.


And get wet.


And love it, man.

  1. Viajero says:

    Love the Miss Hale reference

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