when it rains

when it rains, you shall fight it, you shall carry an umbrella and shake a fist. you shall wear just what you were going to wear anyway, a little skirt and high heels, and fasten a scarf with determination around your exposed neck. when it rains you shall stubbornly stare at the bus stop display and make the number 430 come, and when the 430 bastard appears proudly festooned with a sign saying out of service, you shall catch the 74 and go upstairs anyway. when the 74 inches forward annoyingly in heavy squelchy traffic, you shall get off at the cemetary and grimly stump through the puddles all the way to south kensington, which is just another block away, one more, no more, and when you get there you shall risk life and soul to cross the roads against the lights. when it rains you shall scowl at everyone for the three tube stops to work and dare them to look at your legs or your bedraggled hair, either way. you shall eat salad, sushi and salad again, not giving in to urges for hot chips and messy curry. ditto black coffee, not hot chocolate. and finally, when your pantyhose rips at the knee, you shall peel it off and stuff it into a dumpster and continue your work day as if you always meant to be a frozen woman in a mini skirt on a cold wet rainy london day.