Rain ---> Flood

It absolutely pissed it down today. Just as I left the house for Writing Multi-Cultural Britain it started (or so it seemed) and didn't stop for approximately a millenia. Do people understand what a pain in the arse it is to bundle up in two tops, a cardigan, jacket, jeans, scarf, gloves and Ugg boots to tramp up the slippery, leaf-strewn hill to uni whilst carrying the heaviest handbag in the world because it's full of useless hardback library books and ballet kit, to then arrive at a greenhouse-like building that necessitates the removal of nearly every layer? And to then have to put it all back on, tramp once more along slippery, leaf-strewn pathways to the library (stuffiest building ever built) and unsuccessfully search for books that reference Jacobean conventions of casting after returning the aforementioned useless ones? No, they do not. They would tell me to get over it or get a car. And obviously neither of those options are open to me.

Anyway, rainy days are for sitting next to a window, watching the rain outside whilst it's warm and snuggly inside, and reading a good book/Cosmopolitan whilst drinking soup. And is there anything cosier than being snuggled up in your sleeping bag in a tent, listening to the rain hitting the roof? (Although, admittedly, the thought of attempting to get out of the tent - which will eventually become a necessity - without letting rain, mud or nearby wildlife in puts a slight damper on things.)

The problem with torrential rain is that, where I come from, everyone shits themselves that it's going to flood. This is an understandable fear considering Upton is the most frequently flooded town in Britain (I'm sure I read that somewhere...?), and in July 07 actually became an island. Unfortunately I wasn't on that island, I was in my house, which isn;t anywhere, so I couldn't get to work (bonus) the pub (severe problem) or in fact anywhere that sold food without getting on the M50 and going to Ledbury for it. Basically, it happened thus.

It rained for about 3 solid days and nights. By Friday evening, when my sister was due back from Newquay with school and mum and dad from the Channel Islands, my front garden had flooded. I'd dropped G off at the pub earlier and he had to practically swim home. Mum and dad kept ringing to say they were delayed, so could I pick Flea up, but Flea kept ringing to say they were delayed and going the wrong way because of trees in the road and stuff, so she didn't even know where they were. In the end mum and dad banned me from driving anywhere in my little Ka and organised a parent with a four-by-four to pick up Flea. I just sort of sat in the front room with the dog, who spent the evening barking at the rising rainwater in the front garden and asking me for walks that clearly weren't going to happen. Eventually Flea rang me in floods of tears saying the were stuck in Ross-on-Wye, sleeping on a hotel conference room floor, and mum and dad said their train was stuck at Oxford so they were going to stay at my uncle's. So I went to bed, hoping the floodwater in the garden didn't start coming through the front door, taking the dog with me because the roof in the back porch (where he sleeps) was leaking.

Next morning I went to work at the bakery for 8am, and was sold out of everything by 11am what with people panic-buying stuff. Round about 10ish my sister turned up, dressed in a bikini, board shorts, a hoodie and flipflops and looking like she'd just stepped off the beach (she'd actually only just got off the coach). I gave her a free chelsea bun and she went to her mate's for a sleep. Mum and dad got home with my uncle and his massive dog, so her and Monty had fun splashing about in the diminishing lake that was the front garden before we all went for a pint, laughing and joking about the weekend's misfortune. Oh how naive...

By 9pm the main road between Upton and our house was flooded, which is insane considering it's built up like a bridge above the floodplain. By Sunday morning it was 5' under, meaning the actual level of flooding on the meadow was about 10'. We spent some time fannying about at the edge of the water, nosing around at the camera crews and gossiping darkly with locals about food shortages and sewage problems, then went up the lane to the farm where we met a very posh blonde woman in brand new wellies from Sky News. Felt a bit like a refugee comapared to her, with our muddy boots and careworn expressions, until mum and dad announced that they were going away with Flea the next day as planned because they could get onto the M50. Great, now I've got to spend 5 days in the company of a dissolute, hyperactive dog who can't be walked because all the fields are flooded, and a boyfriend who's grumpy because there won't be any cricket for weeks now, whilst you three swan off to Scarborough where it's dry and the cricket is still on. What a fabulous summer holiday. The only thing that got me through that week was the fact that the final Harry Potter book had come out, so I read all seven in a row, and the minor incident where the dog ran away from the car in Tesco's carpark out of sheer boredom and had to be chased and caught by G.

So... yeah. The actual flooded people of Upton had a much better time (initially) with street parties and water cricket and a general wartime feeling of everyone getting along together. Then everyone had to claim insurance and dry out their houses and it stopped being fun. Luckily for me, the only problem was that Upton and its surrounding area smelled like off seaweed for weeks, and the cellar at work was flooded, meaning we had to take off our shoes and socks and roll up our trousers in order to restock the bar.

And there you have one person's brief account of the July 07 floods... I'm sure there are many more exciting stories, like my mates who took out a rubber dinghy on the floodwater and got apprehended by the watre police, or whatever, but hey. They are not meaninglessly writing a blog...