I love England.

I love the seasons and the weather.

I love the blazing sun of June. I love the too-rare snow of winter. I love the blustery autumn and soft deceptively-warm spring.

And I love the dreary rain.

I even love going away for our summer holidays to North Norfolk, and having nothing to do but watch it slosh down outside all day long...

Partly because I love reading and never have enough time to read all the books in the world.

Partly because... remember my play? Now finished: it was only Act I before. The pinnacle of ambition for my first dramatic effort is for it to play in the theatre where I trained in my provincial weekly rep.

Which just happens to be here, where we go to the seaside every year.

And of course, the more it rains, the more people need to go to the theatre.

As we did last night. All of us. Including Bee.

Aren’t you impressed at how well I am? she asked me the other day, as we ordered coffee in the sun.

Yes, Bee, actually I am.

Well enough to see the Little Viking.

And get this: today she is having a bath at my sister’s seaside house in the next road. She’s already been in there for three hours, my sister said. By now, her husband was threatening to barge in for his shower.

But that’s amazing! I said. I think that’s the first time this year. First time in 2019. First time since Christmas at least, if not longer.

She’s so dirty (in her mind) she won’t even go in the North Sea in case she contaminates it all the way to Holland.

So you can see why I love the rain. Even if I hadn’t already loved the rain. Which I did.