Eight days ago it was pounding down a celebration: riotous, wild with corn-kernels of ice. Weather ran like a girl with her hair out behind, laughing. But it ain't looked back since.

Now in the window-glass my face looks grey, trying to remember Mist so fine it was darn near holy, stuff you went out special at night to watch floating in the halo of streetlights. Remembering Water-the-Plants rain (practical, labour-saving) and Go-In-For-a-Snack showers. Remembering the November Storm, come to town like travelling German opera, boom, bam, curtain going down on the last act with beams of sunshine, victory, the whole chorus on stage for the finale.

But this stuff! This is Matador Rain, waving nyah-nyah capes of water in the air to enrage you. Gumboots, rain pants, slicker, useless as paper bags. A mockery of umbrellas, of Gore-Tex -- of slipping, dripping sanity itself. Ole, sucker! The crowd goes nuts.

Bouncing-Off-The-Pavement Rain. Those bawling, bastard Rain quints: Nonstop, Horizontal, Caughtout, Interminable and Effing.

Six steps to the counter, six back to the window. Repeat.

Summer showers are a punchline, a lark, something to go out and twirl in. June, July, "Fogust" ... they're light-fingered, sun-stealing punks. Bike out to the lake, the little hoodlums won't catch you there.

But this! Hanging Rain. Judge and Jury Rain. Exhibit one: Mount Ozzard out there, half the cursed mountain gone, beheaded by Attilla the Low. The World Wide Weep no electronic help, dishing up satellite pictures a gray smear from here to Hokkaido.

Hard Time Rain. Cruel and Unusual Rain. Don't-You-Ever-Forget-Who's-Boss Rain.

Burly, bald-headed Bad Cop Rain, locking you up, sneering. Swallowing the key, making sure you see it.

Asylum Rain. Eight days -- think about it: What if it just doesn't stop? Forever Rain. It could happen, you know. It really could.