It looks like rain

It looks like rain.
Now won't that just be jolly.
It looks like rain.
You know I thought it would.
It looks like rain.
I'd better get my brolly.
A short, sharp shower will do the flowers good.

This was a little ditty I learned in primary school. It was part of our elocution lessons so that we could speak in the Queen's English as opposed to sounding like little Souf Efrikens with flat accents. Living in a drought ravaged country - where water restrictions were so strictly enforced that to this day I still ask if anyone would like to share my bath water and only flush if it's vital - rain really did seem like quite a jolly thing.

That was then. Flash forward 25-odd years and quite frankly, I feel that even the flowers are gagging for a bit of sunshine and my brolly has long since given up the ghost. When will it sodding-well end?

The weekend is looming. Husband is going to Seattle....for a week. I shall be left alone with two caged up beasties determined to vent their frustration on my sofas. We cannot possibly bake anything else, which is our normal wet weather programme. I am already the size of baby elephant. My trousers no longer do up and even my boobs are escaping from my C cup bra so that I get that attractive double boob thing under a t-shirt. I don't do crafts. a) I'm not crafty and b) the boys only do the craft activity for about 30 seconds before turning the playroom into a glue/glitter/paint-tastic nightmare. I don't think even more TV is the answer. The track with its various forts is even starting to lose its appeal to the boys, and the throwing of stones in puddles is becoming a listless affair.

I despair. Somebody help me. Please.