It's been raining for 2 weeks now. More or less. More more, than less.
I think I've been infinitely patient so far. I've been learning this quality from the English. Because the English, you see, are infinitely patient. No money in the ATM machine? Okay, we'll come back later. No petrol in the petrol pump? Oh, never mind, we'll try the next one, 60 miles down the M11...
In all earnestness, I love this about them. It's so genteel, and well – so civilised. And I've been working oh-so-hard, trying to emulate it. See, the former New Yorker in me would have threatened to withdraw all my (unsubstantial) funds and eat up the entire shop's worth of crisps, from said bank and said pump respectively. But I've moved on from such reprehensible behaviour. Now, I just politely sigh under my breath and say "sod it all, I'll just come back later..."
So as I was saying, with this rain, I have been, I think - in the manner of a true Lady - infinitely patient.
But now, I've had enough.
STOP F*****G RAINING!
Stop it, Stop it, Stop it!!!!!
(Damn, it feels good to throw a tantrum.)
See, the reason I can't stand it anymore is because it's come between me and my food. Now, I know you think of me as a shameless and unstoppable glutton (I am) who cannot get food off her mind (I can't) And therefore, I think you will understand, that when something comes between me and my food, you really don't want to mess with me.
I'm capable of being very dangerous.
Ask my husband.
And so, I want to kill whoever is responsible for this rain-that-won't stop. Because it's gone three Friday's now and I haven't been able to go to Borough Market. The rain just makes it logistically impossible. And, the way it's been raining, I can't simply make do with a raincoat and galoshes. It's not just been raining you see, it's been chucking it down. So I need a brolly. And not just any brolly. I need one of those huge brollies with the wooden handles that weigh as much as a small animal. Also, please note, there's a baby involved. And many steps down to the tube. And equally many steps up from the tube. So, while I can handle myself and baby or myself and small animal, myself and baby and small animal is one variable too many. Even for a girl of my mettle.
So I haven't been in two weeks. Come to think of it, I haven't been anywhere in two weeks. I've been holed up like a rat. And now there's no cheese. I don't jest. My fridge is empty. And my store cupboard is empty. And my stomach is - therefore - (sob) empty. I ate popcorn for dinner tonight.
Now Borough Market, for my non-London readers, is foodie heaven on Earth if there were such a thing. It offers the freshest, highest quality stuff you can imagine, from fruit and veg to fish and meat, and cheese and bread, and olives...marmalade, fudge, harissa, chorizo...I could go on. You know I could. But I don't want to bore you. I just want to tell you that I love this place. It's my favourite place in all of London. If I could set up house and live in Borough Market, I would.
I go every week. And sometimes twice. And sometimes, ummm, thrice. So you understand my misery. It's almost too much to handle. This is separation anxiety of the worst kind.
Course, if I were to rack my brains and look for a silver lining – there isn't one. Well, except I suppose for the fact (and this is not a lining by the way, it's more like a stitch) that I now have a bit more than £5 in my bank account. The trouble is, you see, that whenever I do go to Borough market, I end up spending everything I have on my person. It astounds me how I manage to do this every single time, without fail. But in between chatting with all these lovely folk at the stalls and sampling their delectable offerings, I find that the money in my wallet is quickly replaced by a large and rather random sampling of goodies in brown paper bags. Not that I'm complaining...
Anyway, the point of all this is: I can't blog if I don't cook. And I can't cook if I have no supplies. And I can't have supplies if I can't get to Borough Market. And I can't get to Borough Market if it doesn't stop raining. It’s a damn vicious cycle, it is.
So I know I wax lyrical about how much I love London's green spaces and April Showers Bring May Flowers etc.
But that was all in reference to the sporadic drizzle.
This sh$t’s unbearable.
And it’s wearing my patience thin. I can think of only one way out. Which is to throw another tantrum. Someone’s bound to listen.