AREN'TCHA just sick of the rain?
Yeah, I know we don't have much to complain about, really. We don't live in Yorkshire. We haven't needed a submarine to get to school.
But I'm just FED UP of it raining EVERY SINGLE DAY.

It's supposed to be summer, for Thor's sake.
By now, even in the worst case scenario, we should have had a couple of weeks' worth of sunshine.
I should be moaning about how much gardening I have to do, fretting over putting suncream on The Princess before she goes to school, and looking in the shops for a pair of sandals.
Instead, my garden has started to resemble an overgrown swamp, my daughter's winter coat is back out of the wardrobe and my training shoes have begun to rot.
But don't go blaming global warming - or climate change, as we all now seem to call it.
Apparently, a June 'monsoon' is pretty common in the UK. If you need proof, just think Wimbledon.
So a bit of rain in June is not unexpected. But this is beyond a joke.
And, to add insult to injury, the Med is currently basking in a heatwave. At the time of writing, Greece, Spain, Italy and Turkey are gently steaming. It's hot enough to fry an egg on the pavement, as my dad used to say.
No wonder people flock abroad for the summer.
All this rain reminds me of the time Soon-To-Be-Ex-Husband and I went touring Scotland on the motorbike.
All went well until we got to Skye. These were the days, pre-bridge, when you had to speed on a bonny boat to get across to the island.
We pitched our tent on a campsite close to Portree, the biggest town on the isle.
It had been raining a lot (it was summer - what did we expect?), and the gravelly road leading round the site was slippery. Soon-To-Be-Ex-Husband parked the bike on the road and put the stand down.
The gravel squelched underneath it, and the bike promptly fell over, breaking the clutch lever clean off. It was unrideable, prompting a call to the blessed RAC, who arranged to pick us and the bike up the next day.
That night it rained so hard we woke up in a puddle. Our sleeping bags were so wet we threw them away in a fit of pique, swearing never to camp again.
In a nearby garage, waiting for Mr RAC to take us 90 miles to the nearest Suzuki dealership, a lovely English lady told us she had been living on Skye for a year. “It’s rained every single day,” she cheerfully told us. I believed her.

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