I’ve touched before on DS’s desperation for it to rain. To be fair, he’s barely ever seen any of the wet stuff in his little life, and certainly not in Dubai. But ever since he first watched Peppa Pig jump in a muddy puddle, he’s wanted nothing more than to jump in muddy puddles himself, his feet shod in a pair of shiny Wellington boots.
And every day that we see a cloud in the sky – and even on days when we don’t – he clutches my arm, looks skywards and says, “Mummy? Itsh going to wain today?”
Even when I say no, absolutely not, look – there are no clouds in that bright-blue sky, he still says, “But it might wain later, yes? After school it might wain?”
So there were DH and I on Saturday morning, trying to have a little bit of a lie-in at 8.10am while Gerlie payed with the children in the garden, when what should we hear but the gentle artillery of feet crashing up the wooden staircase.
“It’s raining! It’s raining!” shrieked DD as she charged into her room like a baby elephant and proceeded to throw the contents of her wardrobe around like they were caught up in a tropical cyclone.
Our bedroom door flew open (thank heavens nothing untoward was happening).“Itsh waining!” announced DS with the pride and gravitas of a footman announcing the arrival of a highly esteemed monarch. “I need my waincoat!”
DH and I peered out at the balcony. Pit…pat…pit….pat…. splot. It wasn’t so much rain as a reluctant spit from a god unwilling to part with his saliva.
“Hurry up outside, children, or you’ll miss it!” I shouted.
“But we need our raincoats or we’ll get wet!” they shouted back as they delved deeper into the cupboards for raincoats I realised with a jolt of guilt were still hanging in wardrobes in the UK.
Then, a clomping back down the stairs, the sound of shrieks from the garden then, once more, the artillery up the stairs, this time accompanied by disappointed voices.
“Mummy, it’s not raining anymore.”
“Never mind, dears,” I said. “There’s always next year.”