Fuck the rain

The rain is most definitely not my friend. I left my umbrella on the train last week - too busy slipping in and out of an iPod coma - and so this morning when I saw the state of the weather from my window, I very nearly shot myself in the face. I dashed to the station as quick as I could, but not before all the Toni & Guy thickening spray had run off my hair and dripped into my eyes.

Could've handled that, but my season ticket expired yesterday, so I had to buy a new one from the semi-attractive, slightly scally-esque bloke at the kiosk. Probably best to avoid all eye contact, I thought. It's not like I could actually see him anyway.

Sat on the train in a puddle of rain and my own misery while all the Smugs in Suits shook off their brollies and sat down bone dry. Always adaptable, I whipped my scarf off to use as a makeshift towel and dried my hair as best I could to claw back an ounce of dignity. At Alexandra Palace a particularly handsome chap in a smashing suit got on with his dark skin and dreamy eyes, but even that jawline couldn't drag me out of my soaking-wet-jacket-stuck-to-my-arms-and-my-hair-is-ruined kind of mood.

Made a dash for the nearest shop on exit from Moorgate and handed over nearly a tenner for another brolly to see me through the walk to the office. The man in the shop was actually very lovely and told me to 'have a good day, fella', so he warranted a smile.

All in all a miserable start to the day, and all this with a hang over from going out with the girls from work last night. It was an ex-co-workers get together and the only person not present was Doormouse. He has a spot the size of Vesuvius and doesn't feel he's fit to be seen during 'peak cruising hours'.

With my lank hair, soggy jeans and squelching trainers, I'm beginning to wish I'd called in sick too.