After some serious tan inducing weather over the past week, Mother Nature has thrown up a shit-storm all over Liguria, and we have been house-bound since Tuesday. It’s grey, stormy and very, very wet.
As if the bad weather is not enough, I’m stalked by a continuous chorus of ‘just like London weather though, eh? It’s normal for you, noh?’, everywhere I go.
Actually. No. It is not just like London.
In London, I am prepared for the downpour, at all times. I have shoes which cover my toes. I have a chest of drawers full of lovely warm layers — all the wool and heavy duty nylons anybody could wish for. I have cupboards bursting full of waterproof coats and cardigans.
I don’t have to stuff myself into a 10 year old’s fuschia pink puffer jacket everytime I leave the house, or endure soggy ankles because the only trousers I brought with me are cropped.
Italy in the rain is all wrong, wrong, wrong. It feels like a sort of British caravan holiday, complete with card games and trashy TV, but without the comfort of a kettle (yes, still using the tin jug), and a worse wifi connection.
Only saving grace is that my weather vocabulary is now top notch and very diverse - can match any ‘che bella giornata’ with ‘il tempo e bruto’ and 'piove sempre'.