After you’ve lived in a country for a reasonable length of time (for example, all of your life), at some point you start to cotton on to the common traits of that place. Quality of TV, types of foods, public services, what people are like... and the weather. In the U.K, the last two of those seem to interlink at every opportunity. If there’s one label a non-U.K resident would give us as a nation, it’s that we dress like Mr.Bean and drink lot’s of tea (they’d cheat and give two answers when we only asked for one... because they’re foreign), Oh! And we’re Xenophobic. But if you want to know the sorry truth linking us all... whatever the race, class, generation or sex... we all love to talk about weather. We, as Britons, have a misplaced air of self-importance when it comes to most things, especially our own climate. We believe that it should be a perfect 26° all year round (apart from Christmas Day – when it should snow truck-loads of thick melt-proof powder, be frosty and crisp – but never bitter, and should return to a sunny 26° for Boxing Day), and never more than a light breeze. We’re filled with shock and offence upon sight of a solitary cloud, even in February. But our most important belief – it should never... EVER... rain! But of course it does. Every day of the year if you dare to ask one of us. Even when it doesn’t rain (most of the time) we’re constantly surprised, filled with morbid thoughts of sneaky clouds springing out from behind a bush, relieving themselves all over our brand new shoes, then laughing maniacally like the school bully. If there hasn’t been any rain for two days straight we’ll start talking about hosepipe bans, and how it’s all the fault of the Government. Yet despite living every waking moment of our lives in fear of smelling like wet-dog for the rest of the day... Why are we never properly prepared for it when it comes? Cowering under soggy newspapers, huddling under a stranger’s umbrella, and entertaining a drunk at a bus stop, just for the shelter.

This event page should not have spent the first half chatting about the weather (as if to prove how obsessed we are). It should have been a lovely little event, detailing what happened when a few of Claire’s good friends had a little get together for the mutual loved one’s birthday. If that’s what you’re here for, then I implore you not to be disappointed. However when I look back at that night, I can’t seem to get away from the rain. It looms a dark shadow over my memory like the blackest of clouds, ready to burst its disgusting wet liquid like a Fat Man Pinnata.

The evening started off normal enough. Dinner somewhere in North London. I hadn’t heard of it previous and couldn’t remember the name, but I had a vague memory of what the pub opposite might be called. And that’s all you ever need in this world. 5 minutes of high-speed internet connection later and I was on my way out the door. The air was just starting to spit. I had no umbrella, and no coat (who are you, my mum?) but I was already late, and with the comforting shelter of the tube station only seconds away it seemed sensible to ride my luck and go with the original plan. An hour later and I timidly tip-toed out of Arsenal station wearing a held-shut jacket, upturned collar, and a mightily pissed off gurn engulfing my face. The walk to the restaurant I had estimated, would be at least 20 minutes on a good day. What was I to do? There was nothing to do, but get a march on.

15 minutes of marching had seen me one third of the way there. By this stage, the rain still wasn’t too heavy and I’d managed to skip my way around the raindrops so far – but I knew, as the drops became heavier – I would not stay this fortunate for long. The heavens really let rip, and I contemplated my future ordeal. Already a good 20 minutes late I had no time to spare, but faced another 30 minutes underneath duvets of torrential rain. So I bolted, took shelter under a bus stop. ‘I know where I’m going’ I thought, ‘There must be a bus going passed there’. Not only was there not a bus going anywhere near the restaurant, but there wasn’t a bus going anywhere near it... for a good 15 minutes. And when the bus going nowhere near it finally took pity and showed up – I stepped on with glee, and rode the one stop to where I would wait another 15 minutes for another tardy bus.

Now 40 minutes past schedule already, nothing was being done to help my cause as I waited another 15 minutes... sat under a small bus shelter, next to a drunk old man who, every time he looked round at me and contemplated throwing up on my shoes, mumbled incoherent nonsense to which I would reply “Yeah... I dunno... Bloody bus!” assuming this was the gist of his conversational gambit. He seemed pretty happy as he turned around and tried to answer his phone with the style of James Bond’s corpse.

At last... one full hour after the time I had been ordered to arrive, I trudged in to the restaurant, looking like a dog who’s just clumsily fallen into a swamp in front of an audience of giggling cats, presented a birthday card (soaked in muddy rain water after dropping it twice), and ran to the toilet to ‘dry my hair’ like I was waiting for a school photo.

After that, it was rather cosy. Sat in the conservatory area of The Blue Legume on Stoke Newington Church St. As the rain trickled its way across the plexi-glass roof it’s had not to feel safe and warm as you sit underneath, mesmerised by the miracle of ‘not getting wet’. That of course is until the bill arrives, and your chair’s tipped unceremoniously, out onto the piss-soaked pavement to desperately find an umbrella, a coat, a newspaper, or a child to hold over you head. We found a pub. The after-dinner stage was meant to be down into town somewhere, maybe go to a bar, and then a houseparty. But is it really worth it? ‘It was raining’ – the excuse applies to all social functions. We stayed in the pub and got some shots in.

Finally, as our courage grows, the pub was left behind to fend for itself against the night as we had found other means of protection. A bus. A bus that would take us to a bar. Thank heavens (no DON’T the heaven’s – they’re wankers) for bars. Offering not only a roof, and drinks, but also seats. And along with all that, offering them until 2am. Marvellous things. The one problem with that arrangement, as soon as the clock hits 2am, the bar forgets all previous offers of good times and hilarity. Instead it becomes shaky and blurred. Suddenly the pavement just outside the entrance is very close to view, and it’s cold. Oh, I’m outside. And... it’s not raining! Hurrah! We’ve taken on the elements... and we’ve won! Now we can do anything! We can dance gaily in the streets, we can build a rainbow out of smiles, we can... have another drink. But we can’t. It’s 2am, everywhere’s shut and I’m actually really tired. Let’s just go home and talk about how the weather’s always shit, why can’t it just be dry... for once!

Bloody Tories!