I know that you americans are more used to extremes than me, so bear with. Here, we have been having some pretty shitty weather. Much of the Somerset levels, some of my nearest countryside, has been underwater for the last month, and now the effects are moving northwards. 

On Saturday, my mother convinced me to to a seminar (about aid work – because of Tanzania) on the other side of town. That in itself was pretty uneventful, and when it ended, I was tired and hungry and couldn’t be bothered to wait half an hour for the bus, so I walked home for about an hour in the driving rain. And gave myself probably the worst cold I’ve ever had. I woke up on Monday without out a voice, and could only croak until Thursday evening. Because I am, above all else, a total idiot, I decided to celebrate the return of my voice through singing “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina” at the top of my lungs, and promptly lost it again. Moral of the story: buses exist for a reason. 

Over the week in question, the weather has been getting worse. On Wednesday, my best friend went to a university interview about 200 miles away, and couldn’t get home again because the railways had flooded. On Thursday, one of the girls in my year got blown over when walking between school buildings. On Friday, I was on the bus home and it started shaking in the wind. And last night, mum decided the wind was too dangerous for driving, so I sat in front of a million episodes of the Simpsons knitting* before curling up in my sister’s bed, because the wind shook the walls of my attic bedroom. 

*Yes, I knit. I’m actually making something for you at the moment. It was going to be a surprise, but I’m bad at surprises. 



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