Rain Dogs and Englishwomen

The clouds had been gathering for most of the afternoon. I have a great view from my office window, so great that someone once brought in a cloud book to help us avoid work more thoroughly. These were rainclouds, i was pretty certain (and heard it on the weather forecast).

Other than a few drops, I don’t think it’s rained in North London for about a month now. I can tell how bad the weather is by how often I go to the gym, rather than run outside, and I think I’ve been twice since March.

It started to pour steadily as I left the office. I had my kit with me, planning to head for the treadmills, but as I walked to the tube I changed my mind. The pavements were darkening and the kings cross traffic noises and smells were muted by the falling rain. It had been so long since I ran in the wet that I realised I missed it: the shiver of damp t-shirt on arm, the stream of water running off my cap, even the irritating drops on my glasses.

Of course once I started running it stopped raining within a few minutes, and the slick pavements of East Finchley weren’t romantic so much as dangerous, but it was a lovely run all the same. I could smell the earth’s pathetic gratitude for those few millimetres of water and there were fewer people about to get in my way.

I ran 7 miles, mainly because I wanted to run down this road in Alexandra Palace park. I’m not sure why I like it so much, maybe because of the trees. It’s peaceful.