The day in which the BBC said it would rain, most if not all of the day.
We laid in bed until nearly seven, I got up, fed the cats, made coffee, and then noticed the unusual light.
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You won't be surprised to hear.
Just before the sun rose, rain swept in from the west, the sheeets of rain each lit by the red rishing sun turning the whole sky orange.
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The morning was spent looking at the rain pouring down the windows, like a waterfall. And bottling gin.
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Its a two person job, probably three, but we manage, emptying each demijohn and the labelling each bottle.
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Though the kitchen looked like a bomb had hit it, we wash up, and put the tools away.
It wasn't yet ten.
We have another brew.
Outside, the rain fell on in buckets and into buckets. And butts. Water butts.
I make breaded chicken flatbreads again for lunch, they were all ready to cook, so I fry those, toast the flatbreads, chop vegetables, fill them and add chilli sauce, pour beer and we can eat.
The afternoon is taken with football, Scotland played. And lost. Wales played Ireland. Ireland lost, then England plaed Belgium. And lost.
That took us to half nine.
The rain stopped at some point, but I watched footy, ate baklava of cooked more party food for supper.
And that was that.
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