Robert Carey, aged eight
Part 2 of a short story series about the young Robert Carey - and in case you don't already have it, you can get part 1 as well, A Pest of a Boy.
Here in drought-ravaged Britain… All right, Cornwall. Yes, it\’s cold and rainy again. Not hammering down, just dank grey clouds and a persistent mizzle that makes you feel the sky has caught a nasty cold.
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My mother had a theory that the only reason why the British went out and got themselves an Empire, was to get away from the ghastly weather. It was no coincidence, she said, that the Brits tended to try and hang on to the really hot bits like South Africa, India and Australia.
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So anyway, here in drought-hit Cornwall, we are bang in the path of the Gulf Stream and get the rain first; everybody else has secondhand rain. Despite this we spend enormous sums for water rates (I pay nearly £70 per month for a very ordinary three bedroom house) and the minute there\’s a gap in the clouds for more than a week, everybody instantly runs round announcing that global warming is a Fact and there has to be a hosepipe ban.
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At which point the evil Cornish weather-gods cackle evilly and chuck down the wet stuff.