Après le Déluge

I set off to walk to Buckhurst Hill to have my hair cut this morning. A few minutes before I left the sun was shining but, as I was putting my coat on, Smithers noticed that it had started spitting with rain. This wasn’t unexpected, and I had chosen to wear my trusty waterproof jacket. 

I stopped off at the Atrium on the way to pop a few more cards in the stand, then continued to walk to Buckhurst Hill with my hood up. However, as I neared my destination the rain started to come down with a vengeance and, almost immediately, turned into hail, which was blowing straight towards me, tiny stinging missiles hitting my face. Within seconds my trousers were drenched through, water was running down inside my sleeves as I held my arms up to stop my hood from blowing off, and then my trainers filled with water so that every step I took made a squelching sound.

I arrived at the hairdresser’s soaked to the skin, and concluded that my 18-year old waterproof jacket was now in default of the Trades Descriptions Act 1968. 

By the time I’d been kindly towelled down and duly had my hair washed, cut and dried, the sun was shining and there was very little evidence of the brief deluge of an hour before. I gingerly sloshed back home, passing the 10 mile stone for London (Epping 6 miles on the other side) and admiring all the bluebells and wildflowers in the graveyard of St. John’s Church nearby. 

I briefly stopped to take these photos, although I was sorely tempted not to, and then practically jogged all the way home to Smithers, who was awaiting my return with warm wheat bags, a cosy blanket, hot coffee and a very solicitous look on his face. It took me a couple of hours before I really warmed up again.