The easing of Lockdown was greeted by a muffled cheer as the weather told us not to party just yet. Unrelenting rain filled our puddles and potholes. Gallant and galling gales ripped at your clothes, grabbed at your umbrellas, and mussed with your hair. But the English supported the opening of our pub gardens with aplomb. Umbrellas in a death grip and pints held by chilled fingers, we sipped and we supped. Some came to the party dressed like an expedition to the Arctic. Coats and scarves and mittens keeping the chill and wet at bay.
Zoo's and parks opened, but the weather was so foreign, so alarmingly chilled and wet the animals were nowhere to be seen. Gorillas remained in their man caves with the covers pulled high. Tigers slept in, Lions laid low, elephants stood motionless, swaying in misery refusing to snort or sneeze from their shivering trunks.
On an isle in old blighty penguins were seen, vacation or mass migration no one can tell.
But come out of hiding we did and we're told, if we're good, don't sneeze or cough, hug or kiss, congregate in large bunches, or party indoors, Boris is going to let us inside next week. Boris is going to let us light our fires, warm our pints and eat without having to tussle with an umbrella.
It's all good, on this wee isle.
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