weathering the drought

Once again, I apparently do not care enough to conceive of and write something meaningful.  This is becoming a whingefest of pathetic proportions. 

Today's complaint relates to this drought we're having.  In London, buses and bus shelters are plastered with posters requiring us to conserve water.  The reservoirs are empty in the South, we are told.  This may, at least in part, have been because winter looked like this:

I SAW THE FIRST DAFFODIL BUDS THAT DAY

And yet, AND YET, my commute today looked like this:

TERRIBLE PICTURE: CAPTURES THE MOOD THOUGH.  1 MAY 2012, WOULD YOU HAVE BELIEVED IT?

My commute has been a wet, drizzly bonesoak, occasionally featuring proper downpours, for the last three weeks at the least.  Vanity aside (MY POOR HAIR), the rain was not unpleasant to start - it made the spring colours more vibrant; every shade of green imaginable amplified by droplets, viewed against a grey backdrop. 

However, the grey has lingered and worked itself into my bone structure, my cells are sodden with apathy.  I'm beginning to view the rain as a virus as the previously green leaves start to spot a sickly yellow with mildew and the aluminium window frames sweat damply with condensation. 

Not-long, not-long, squeak the soles of the boots re-earthed from the 'will no longer need it now winter's over' pile.  They're right, I know.   

The only hints of glee in the situation are the faces of the British as they discuss the weather over a steaming mug of tea.  Nothing more satisfying than the possibility of a washed out summer and how wrong the Beeb was about the drought (conspiracy theories abound: saving water for the Olympic pool?).  The joys of weather dissection; I am now able to use comparative reasoning (Spring '10 was fantastic but early Spring '11? Left a lot to be desired) and can splice my seasoned opinion into a weather discussion without being an obvious outsider.