Wet, wet, wet...

it is now a week since I last wrote and it still hasn't stopped raining, making it officially the wettest June on record. Poor old Sheffield, my student home, is a lake, South Yorkshire itself is becoming like a Hollywood disaster movie (we can't let that dam break, goddamit!) and people have even died. So, youd' be thinking, don't start off on one Angela, you're not doing so badly.

And I'm not. Here in the People's Republic of East Anglia, we are getting off reasonably lightly - if you don't count the cryptosperidium infiltration to a couple of areas. And the endlessly flooded roads. Or the life-sapping damp. Or cold. Or the Japanese torture-like effect of having to listen to the endless rain drumming into your brain like a stroke. There haven't even been any medical emergencies of late - save for one pelvic scan (normal) to see if cysts might be the reason I'm mutating into Brian Blessed since I hit my thirties. Or account for the crippling pain of ovulating. But no. (Still, at least I can number knowing yet another area of my local hospital. Which is great - I now even know which waiting rooms have the best magazines/comfiest chairs.)

However. There is one thing. I'm talking to you, 4x4 owners. Perhaps someone could enlighten me - why is it that you buy a car specifically designed for trekking across Nepalese mountains/through lakes and yet you can't pull over on to a two-foot high bank when the weeny little country roads in Britain get a bit damp and muddy? Don't get me wrong - I was raised on a farm and I know the need for a landrover on a field or for transporting livestock, or even just to fit the dogs in when one is checking one's land. I don't mind if you have big dogs, or a horse box. But if I have to smack my head on the roof of my car while trying to manoevre my Focus so that Mrs Boden doesn't get mud on the wheels of her gargantuan Volvo one more time, I shall not be responsible for my actions. You paid for the wretched planet rapist. Now USE IT!