Boy, can it rain. Moody great clouds, you’ve made your point, yeah? How about you go somewhere else now? It’s been raining for weeks. I daren’t go down to the cellar because I just know it’ll have flooded a bit, and the labels will have floated off our wine supply. And our tinned tomato supply. And maybe even the twinnage’s baked beans. Oh, and can you imagine what it’s done to the industrial quantities of tissues that the Stoic Spouse buys in bulk? (And I do mean in bulk. Seriously, come the apocalypse, you really need to pop round to our house: we have non-perishables a-plenty.)
Did I tell you about the time the Stoic Spouse went down there without bothering to put the light on after it had rained lots, and I heard him plodding down the steps: thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, SPLASH. “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!” I shouldn’t say this, but his comic timing was perfect, a fact that was understandably lost on him at the time. Sorry, Stoic Spouse.
Oh, and whilst we’re on the subject of the cellar, rumour has it – stop me if I’ve told you this already - rumour has it that there was once a tunnel from our cellar (we live in a converted brewery, remember) to the pub over the road, presumably so the beer made here could be effortlessly transported to its destination. I don’t know whether there’s any truth in the rumour, but I’ve often wondered about poking about a bit down there, trying to find it. Wouldn’t it be cool to be able to scurry through the tunnel, just in time for last orders?
This was going to be a post about yarn, and the ever-expanding rainbow afghan, but it’s been derailed by water, wine, and beer. Tomorrow there will be a post about crochet, I promise. Unless you fancy some wine?