A tihirty-five mile trip at ungodly o’clock this Sunday morning, to an outdoor pursuits centre where Grenouille and friends from the disabled sports club were competing in the regional heats of a national competition.
“Lots of layers”, said G’s Papa, who was staying behind to keep Eldest company through AS science revision. “And waterproofs, and take the golfing umbrellas for when you’re standing around. The forecast says bands of heavy rain.”
As we drove down the motorway, G asked, “Do you think it’s going to rain?”
“I don’t know, love. I think it was sensible to pack all the waterproofs. It does look a bit threatening, there’s some dark-grey clouds to the north-west, and as Papa said, the forecast is for rain”. Under my hands, the car’s steering wheel vibrated as a buffeting side-wind tried to push us into the outside lane.
“I don’t believe the forecast”, said G, in a tone of bright hope. “Half the time they say something and it turns out totally different. “
“Is that right?” I said, rather vaguely, one eye on an articulated lorry wobbling to my left, and the other checking out the Beamer roaring up behind me as though keen to get close enough to check whether the inside of my exhaust pipe had been cleaned recently.
G snorted derisively. In a voice dripping with scorn: “I don’t think the weather people know what they’re talking about. I’m not listening to any of that old nonsense.”
To keep the wind out, we wore our waterproofs all day; but it never rained.