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  • A jet stream has sunk below our island, causing North Atlantic lows to congregate along our shores and linger across our lands. For three months now we have had leaden skies and rain. Oh so much rain.

    I’m officially sick of grey. Sick of the flat, joyless skies that lay across the town, unyielding to summer’s hot sun which is hidden away, suspected lost forever. My eyes strain in the gloom for light, my skin aches for the warm kiss of sunlight.

    We are, as a nation, currently suffering from seasonally defective disorder. People stare mournfully out of train windows at the sheets of rain water gushing down, as they ponder if they’ll get home tonight or if the tunnel will be flooded out again. Three times in two weeks now. Hebden Bridge – the next village up the road – has been hit so badly and so often it looks as if it has been looted by a horde of damp, saggy sandbags.

    It’s hard to find joy anywhere. Hard to delve down into a dead soul and come back excited about anything. My well of inspiration has run dry. Or more like been flooded out. I’m not staring at life and marvelling at the wonder of it all. Not being able to see beyond the low grey ceiling covering our world, everything seems mundane, fixed, unrelenting. All the future is grey, the distance obscured, the past shrouded in rainy mist. We’re lost in this.

    A double dip recession, a Tory Government and the wettest summer in over one hundred years. I’d say, “Could it get any worse?” Only knowing our luck at the moment, it could. And it’s a “year of sport” so there’s bugger all on TV except wall to wall adverts about the Olympics; adverts which take place in a surreal world beyond our own; where everyone looks fit and well, and the sun is shining and this… life… is far away outside the stadium. Pack me away until Christmas please. I've had enough of summer now.
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