I've lived in enough dry-in-winter places to find the constant rain a little on the irritating side, and to still be mildly horrified when I see my postie wearing shorts in the middle of December (doesn't he ever get a chill?). The rain gets downright depressing after a while, all that gray and damp and lack of bright sun. I'm sure Roald Dahl could've written an excellent children's story using my locale as a prop: lots and lots of rain, a couple of nasty aunts, some poisonous mushrooms in the backyard (rapidly multiplying) a few curious and undaunted-by-the-aforementioned-aunts children visiting for the summer because their parents have been sent off to Borneo as missionaries, and everyone getting up to mischief because of the weather. Naturally, it all takes place in the UK somewhere, although if they make a movie of it they'll probably need to film it here because of the constant rain. Did I mention that it rains a lot here?
My husband's parting words this morning, as he boarded his kayak, err, car, were this: "Check for damp patches, would you? I'm a little worried about the weeping tiles." So here I sit, pecking away when I should be downstairs hunting for puddles (not cat puddles, rain puddles). I didn't even know tiles could weep. Sigh.
(I call this Rain 2 because I've already written a Rain 1...see here)