Woe is me. The rain falls and ruins my immaculately coiffured hairdo. Oh, but thou art a vengeful god, and this is not the first time that thou hast forsaken me, not that I am keeping count. I shall assuage my follicles with the finest herbal essences. Blessed is the rain that rains upon me. For my body is desiccated like a baker's coconut. Despite the recent purchase of a jumbo-sized vial of the most precious Vaseline Intensive Care known to man, I remain a dermatological refugee, stumbling from chemist to chemist in search of a soothing balm. (Questions...so many....? Who has worse skin: Ricky Martin or Posh Spice?...and don't even get me started on Christian Ziege). I have been hung out to dry like so much forgotten laundry. I sway in the mid-afternoon English breeze, the pegs biting into my skin, my feet dangling inches above the mossy lawn. In the distance, I can hear magpies and lawnmowers and a mother berating her child for playing in the outhouse. My glasses are misted over with raindrops and my underpants are slipping up my arse. This is what is must have felt like for Julius Caesar. The question is not whether I will survive this weather. The question is whether this weather will survive me.