Rain? It Never Rains.

Hatfield is the victim of a new and depressed microclimate. I was woken this morning (about thirty seconds before the alarm - nice when that happens, isn't it?) by the rain, both on my window and making disturbing noises in the chimney.
It wasn't the force of drops being hurled about by the wind, and making hard hitting taps on the glass - it was the sudden and strange noise of a lot of water.

Not just dribbling down the window, but truly flowing - there was just so damn much of it that it sounded as though someone was steadily and determinedly pouring buckets of water onto my window. A slow WOOOOOOOSHy noise.

Of course, when I was up and awake, it was the noises from the chimney that were most worrying.
My landlord, wonderful, wonderful man that he is, has done a lot of work on the house himself. I remember arriving to take up residency and his wife was just finishing off the pure white curtains on a sewing machine. The house is next to a main road, and these lovingly handmade curtains give the effect of trying to sleep with a very slow strobe. Some of the radiator piping is plastic, and wobbles alarmingly when you catch it with your foot.

Anyway.
The fact that I could hear water sloshing gleefully down the chimney was made worrying by the fact that there is a lovely electric fire at the bottom, thankfully off. Doesn't bode well for the rest of Winter, though.

Anyway, Hatfield seems...cleaner somehow. Well. Not somehow.
The place needed a bloody wash.

Plans
There are now two parties lined up for this weekend, for little ole international-party-jetsetter me!
Friday night's party is in Bristol, with Ginger Ben and co.
Saturday night's party is in London with the Blogging UK.

Two Parties.
Twenty four hours.
One national rail network.
Oh boy.

After an absolute drought of party-age, it would seem that it never rains, but it pours...