Why writing in the rain is even harder than writing in the sunshine

Now, I'm not trying to develop a weather theme here - let's face it, we get enough of that in our daily conversation with people we don't know well enough to talk to about anything else. It's just that having thought rain was far less of a distraction when trying to write than that lovely round yellow thing I wrote about in my last post, today I've discovered that rain can be equally as distracting - especially when you've hung your washing out.

The thing is, when I hung it out , it was admittedly a little overcast but predominantly warm and windy - perfect drying conditions (or so my Best Housewifely Practice Handbook tells me). But then, half an hour ago, it started getting dark, very dark. Which came as something of a shock to me, as I'd actually been rather engrossed in writing a letter of resignation to my boss and serving breakfast to a room full of old people, before dashing off with my best friend to purchase a rather swanky town-centre apartment and a Porsche. Well, what else do you do on a rainy day? Oh, okay then, it's not really me - it's my character - why do all the best bits happen to her and not me? However, I digress - the point is, the darkness was clearly the forerunner of the arrival of those little wet globlets we commonly call rain (and which the people in the south-east would love to get their hands on if only they could - I wonder if I could sell them some on e-bay?) - anyway, the question was how many and big would those globlets be and how long would they fall for?

I peered out into the ever-deepening gloom. And then I noticed it, the puddles that never quite dry up on the conservatory roof - splish, splash, splosh. I shoved back my chair and dashed like Linford Christie (except without the lunch pack and the lycra) into the garden. Hmm. What had looked quite threatening on the conservatory roof was really nothing more than an attempt by a few minor drips to get themselves noticed. I touched the washing. It just needed another hour to be fully dry. I looked in all directions of the compass to see what might be coming my way. It was impossible to tell. I made the executive deicision that all housewives have to make from time to time, and brought in only the few items that were a little delicate and actually dry. Then I returned to my desk, all set to get back into my book. But it was impossible. I kept glancing out of the window like a criminal hiding from the cops. Trying to get back into my book was like trying to get back into a dream after the alarm's woken you up. But I must not give up. I was a swot (see Imogen's comment to my last post) and swots never give up. I forced myself to clamber into my Porsche and switched on the ignition. Vroom, vroom, she went. Splish splash splosh went the rain. Rain? No way, I was on the south coast where it never rained. Except I wasn't. I glanced back at the window. The rain lashed. Need I say more? What do you mean, 'please don't'?

So, how many words did it take me to resign my job, feed the olds, buy a swanky apartment and a Porsche? Oh, only about 4500 - BUT it does at least show that a LOT is happening in my book in a very short time - and that's good, right?