There’s a particular kind of optimism that leads one to leave the house in London without an umbrella.
The forecast warns of light showers, and suddenly I’m convincing myself that “light” is practically Mediterranean. Of course, by 3pm the heavens have opened, my trousers are soaked to the knee, and I’m performing the peculiar British dance of hopping around puddles in shoes that were never built for the purpose, all while fighting a tote bag that’s slipping off my shoulder.
