06 January 2016
Conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative.
Every time I talk to someone about the weather, I feel like Oscar Wilde is standing there right next to me, fully judging my level of creativity, and how my pants fit and my ugly hat.
I don't know if I get any credit for my tall green rainboots, probably not.
I think they're the kind Gwyneth Paltrow wears.
But dirtier. I've failed him, and I just want to go back inside and watch another episode of Chopped.
Would he have worn a rain coat like mine, if gore-tex had been a thing then?
Probably not. I don't know if he had dogs that needed to run, crappy weather or not.
Once it's raining, that's kind of it for me. I focus on the moist. And breaks between the storms. I don't think Oscar would understand. But his ghost still hangs there on my every word, and it's probably a good thing, in the long run.
They don't really care. They just want the ball, and enough time to run before the next big squall blows in.
by team small dog at 12:58 PM