Although I don't mind rain at all, today it seems altogether too wet - even for the dog. Although I quite like the dog, he's getting on my nerves because he refuses to go for a walk and must be storing up no end of trouble in that tiny Yorkie body....and a bladder infection. Although I don't mind walking, like it even, I am secretly glad the dog doesn't want to wee in the rain because I will get wet. Although I don't mind getting wet, afterwards I feel like sitting in, eating cold chocolate, drinking hot chocolate and watching the Christmas channel two months early.  Although once in a while that is allowed, I do it very often and wobble a bit. Although that's who I am, I can't fit into my clothes and am due at a party in like....fifteen minutes.
 
And,  I don't know whether the dog or the rain's to blame for me still sitting in my pyjamas.

I wrote this opening paragraph to a novel about 5 years ago. It has taken on a meaning it never had before, whichever way you jump. #Brexit #extinctionrebellion #climatechange #politicalclimateuk
THE SEA
Our small island survives through the patronage of salt water, our back against the wall of Europe. We who call it home, are convinced that the sea itself will never surprise the likes of us with tidal waves and storms of biblical proportions. What fools we are.
This sea wonders not who is in charge, it is not you my friend. One angry backhand and the water will swallow us whole. The Americans may wonder where we’ve gone. On the other had, such an insignificance… what would it matter? Think of it - an entire nation sunk, as though they never were and never had been. 
The sea bides its time, especially around Lightning Ho! For the most part, it is grumpy and aggressive as it does the best it can to rally its whoosh of offspring into some sort of rhythmical order. The only problem being that in windy weather, like all children, waves become overexcited. They fling themselves gleefully against the sea wall then freewheel up and over its edge.They are boys at a skatepark.
Their father puts up with it for a while, boys will be boys after all. But from time to time, his nature takes over and they push him too far. He slaps them so hard that his water babies shoot up and over walls and roofs, ricocheting off the buildings of the cliffside town until water lands spent and limp on park benches, dripping pathetically from wooden arms and slotted seats as though God himself had sneezed. More still wallop and slop around the ankles of shopkeepers along the shore. Separated from their salty brothers, waves are unable to find their rhythm, the constant comfort of an ebb and flow. But always, when they have learned the cold, disorientating lesson, their father calls them home and they seep into the gutters, the drains, the grass and little by little they trickle down to the sea where they beg for forgiveness and vow ‘never again’. But there is always a next time.