Here in the north-west of England it is WET, very wet indeed.  We live on the side of a steep and thickly wooded valley and, though this is a decidedly damp bit of the country, we’re rarely threatened by heavy rain, it just rolls on down the hill or gets hoovered up by the trees. But with 2 months-worth of rain falling in the last 48 hours, the back garden has started to flood. The last time this happened, a spring rose in the kitchen, next to the fridge. I suppose we could have bottled it up in blue glass and called it Hotpoint Spring, or somesuch. I suppose it would have been more positive and productive than all the running about, shouting and panicking that we actually indulged in. Afterwards, we dug as big and deep a soakaway as we could for a house built on bedrock and so far, it’s served us through some frighteningly wet summers. But that water is getting deeper. Maybe I should get some nice coloured glass bottles in, just in case.

That big-bottom in a barbour is me, btw, trying to fill the bird-feeders in a deluge. We all need our oilskins in this weather, even little dogs (especially little dogs!)

Stay dry my fellow Brits, and keep a bucket handy.