I haven't blogged for a while because I've trashed one of my kneecaps.
Why that actually makes any difference, I don't know, but I'm sticking with it.
Apparently May in the UK was the wettest since Noah clambered into his boat. However, since the first of June it really has been summer. Heat, lots of heat, blue skies and a total absence of clouds. Taking heed of the less-than-friendly advice from the doc after my recent introduction to melanoma, I literally caked my face and neck with factor fifty this morning.
Armed with the happiness of someone who hasn't listened to the weather report, I set off to the motorbike shop to get my hog serviced and MOT'd. Can't do it myself for two reasons - aforementioned knee, and more importantly because I just can't be bothered any more. The shop is only three miles away and the walk back would do my partially perished patella some good. My plan worked.
Until the moment I left the shop.
In a particularly vicious ambush the clouds hurtled across the sky, coalescing directly above my head, and seconds later about half a ton of rain per square inch almost concussed me. On the long, miserable walk back, and in collusion with the sky, about twenty car drivers, noting my predicament with glee, took the greatest delight in swerving into the giant puddles of storm water to drench me, and in the process indicating that the label on my new bike jacket, proudly proclaiming it to be waterproof, was a tad optimistic - in fact a blatant lie.
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