A matter of rain and pride

To paraphrase one of the greatest minds of our time, This. Rain. Is. The. Nastiest. Skank. Bitch. I. Have. Ever. Met. Do. Not. Trust. Her. She. Is. A. Fugly. Slut. I am at my WIT’S END.

Pride weekend was a washout. Walking with Shout Out, I don’t think I’ve ever experienced the Pride parade to move so quickly, and I don’t think my poor dog Harry has ever gotten so wet. As I had my date with Taylor Swift that evening, I had to run home as soon as I could and change every item of clothing, drumming up some optimism and good vibes as I had an emergency hot cup of tea and toastie between events.

I have always hated the rain. Always. When I used crutches to get around, the rain made for wet floors, causing me to slip and fall if I didn’t move with caution. When Grafton Street was lined with red bricks and white tiles, I had to expertly avoid the white tiles as they were particularly dangerous under-crutch.

While a fall was always on the cards in rainy weather in my walking days, at least I could stay dry. Since switching to the chair, I’ve been struggling with rainwear in a big way. When you stand, the rainwater rolls off your raincoat, but when you are sitting in a chair, the rainwater pools exactly where you sit, making a miserable day even more miserable.

You would think that by now, aged 36 and living in Ireland all of my life, that I would be used to a wet summer. You would think that by now, having been an avid festival goer/survivor for over 20 years, that I’d have the arsenal to take on the rain. But nothing seems to work. Last summer was a challenge with wet festivals, and this summer is no better. God help us, what are we to do?