An Ounce Or Two Of Idiot

Who's stupid idea was it to walk to Lucia's?

The sky had darkened to an all-too-familiar hue of greys and blacks. We'd been standing outside the bus stop for forty minutes, having forsaken an astonishing amount of Emma's chocolate raisins to the ground in (mostly) futile attempts to catch them in our mouths. In the usual way, a couple of people had quietly suggested moving onto greener pastures (i.e. somewhere where our clothes - and more importantly, my recently straightened hair - weren't going to get drenched), but had been mostly ignored, due to the puerile antics of the rest of the group. At last, as a couple of droplets of precipitation started to abandon their cloudy homes, we decided that perhaps it would be sensible to descend on some poor soul's home. Lucia's, being the closest, was that poor soul.

Somehow, for some obscure, inexplicable reason, it was decided that we should walk. The rain got heavier, but did this deter us from the ridiculous task we had set ourselves? Oh no. Not us, the intrepid explorers, willing to forsake our dryness in return for the sixty pence it would have cost us to board a nice, warm train, and be dropped right on her doorstep.

Within two minutes, we were drenched. I said solemn goodbyes to the straighteness of my hair, and to my eyeliner, which was already escaping down my cheeks in torrents. We kept cheery, skipping, singing and sliding in the wet, commenting idly on how it would be better if, perhaps, the rain was heavier.

The rain got heavier.

The roads began to flood.

The sewers began to overflow.

Never mind, said we. Let's wade through the fast increasing levels of water. It won't matter, we're soaking already. Ripping off our clothes, exposing our cleverly disguised wet suits, and breathing equipment, we grabbed each other's hands, and with nods of equal determination, we dived into the depths unknown. Or, like, drudged across the river of sludge and foam, filling our shoes to the brim with Godknowswhat. Having resurfaced, we carried on in our sodden way, shoes squelching, and the water rushing in between our toes.

We trudged on further, deterred only for a moment for Emma to attempt to splash Joe, and lose her shoe in the watery prisons below. Or, like, a puddle.

At last, we caught sight of the correct road, the correct drive and the correct house. Our toil was finally coming to an end. We stood on her doorstep, drips on the ends of our noses, clothes clinging revealingly tight, and water spilling from our shoes.

The rain stopped.