It didn’t rain yesterday, but that’s not for lack of trying.
The blue sky lasted for a few hours before being replaced by the familiar menacing grey that has become a permanent fixture in Britain over the last few weeks.
But no matter how hard the clouds tried, for the first time in weeks the insatiable sponge had been wrung dry and was incapable of squeezing even a drop of water out of the sky.
It felt like more of a miracle than if I’d peeked out of my curtains to find exotic animals being led two-by-two to a wooden arc by a strange bearded man.
Before the sun had time to soak up a fraction of the grimy pools of water that sit helplessly in my garden it was there taunting me and I woke to the sound of rain hammering on my roof, dancing on the window panes.
Angry at being suppressed for a day, it stamped its feet hard, throwing a temper tantrum on the ground to remind us that it’s here, and it’s here to stay.
I’m used to rain, I live in Britain for God’s sake, but this has been relentless.
For weeks it’s haunted us, made us prisoners in our own homes, staved off the start of summer that us Brits spend the long winter yearning for.
Teased by a week of splendid sun in March, we were tricked into thinking THIS was going to be the year that we enjoyed months of basking in the sweltering heat.
Panic ensued. Hose-pipe bans were mooted and scare-mongering headlines of droughts and photos of shrivelled lakes were plastered across newspapers.
And then came the rain, punishing us for daring to think that summer had come early.
As I type, the rain has given us a slight reprieve but judging by the blanket of black, it’s only pausing briefly to gather energy before unleashing its never-ending wrath again.
Tomorrow’s a new day and I just hope it brings with it clear blue skies.