The Rain in Ireland Stays Mainly Everywhere (not in the plain)

Taz here.

Most Irish people hate the rain. 

With good reason, I guess. It's wet, and cold, and you can't hang your washing out, or even go out for that matter. Kids don't play in it, you don't tan in it, and when it comes as you're on the sidelines of a football pitch? It sucks.

(Apparently)

Everyone says the rain is awful. They moan and groan and intone that it's a holy terror and god forbid we get a bit of sun for once. It's the topic of an infinite number of conversations-all of which conclude the rain is just horrible.

Personally I think the rains pretty awesome. 

And why wouldn't I? In my head, rain equals warmth. Coincidentally, it's currently pouring rain from the (figurative) heavens outside my window. I'm seated on a swingy-chair in my warm room typing away at my clonky old PC, a cup of coffee at hand. I'm comfortable. I'm cosy. I'm other nice descriptive words beginning with c which if I were bothered to think of and type out would create some nice alliteration. Point is, even though I can hear the wind and rain bashing against my window, I'm somewhere safe.

Rain, to me, acts as a physical representation of wealth. It reminds me that I'm very lucky in life, that I have comfort and security. I'm not living on the streets, or in a slum. I don't need to cower into somewhere relatively dry(er) when rain comes. I don't need to beg or scavenge for scraps of food. And assumably, if you're reading this, neither do you.

It puts things into perspective, doesn't it? It's all well and good to complain about the wet and the cold and how miserable it is, when we're going home to a heated home. And maybe you think I'm a downer for thinking like this, but to me its uplifting. Not the fact that others are wet, of course, but the fact that we're dry. It makes my grateful, and happy, and all of that other soppy stuff.

Now if you'll excuse me I think I'll go for a run. And quite literally soak up the weather of an Irish summer.