Into every life a little rain must fall, not for three days solid though, surely.

A lot of Gypsy people will tell you that they love the sound of the rain on the trailer roof.

I don’t.

Not after three days solid, I don’t.

It means, to me, that the floor needs wiping over a gazillion times a day, because no matter how often you tell them, the boys will rarely wipe their feet and living in a forest, the rain battered leaves are everywhere.

The shed walls are running with damp and despite the constant wiping of the floors, aquaplaning is a real hazard. Flip-flops: not good on wet floors, but easy to shuck on and off at the trailer door.

The dogs won’t come out of their box and just stare glumly at me each time I dive through the yard to get to the bathroom or the kettle.

Worst of all, it means that you can’t go to work. If you can’t go to work you can’t get paid.

This makes a Gypsyman and his wife very gloomy indeed and two gloomy people in a confined space is not a good combination, believe me.

Please stop raining… it was supposed to clear up a bit today!

Hang on! It has! It’s actually stopped raining.

My whispered prayer was answered and we have some hope in the day after all.

Get that lorry started, we’re off!

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