June. And raining. Not a gentle spring shower, a deluge with gale-force winds. The clouds are so low and dark, my whole house looks like a dungeon. Welcome to summer on the northern tip of Vancouver Island.
At this moment, my five-year-old is having a school-sponsored swimming lesson in an outdoor pool in the middle of a freezing, torrential downpour. My handy-dandy-man Alan is chopping up my balcony railing while bent beneath frigid sheets of driving rain. For my part, I am debating whether it's worth it to get soaked crossing the yard to the place where my table-saw sits under its veil of spiderwebs, so I can rip this window casing to width (since the idiots who built my house didn't make anything standard, from window-depths to the length of drainpipe under the bathroom sink).
Can't install the baseboards until the sliding door is framed. Can't frame the door until the casing is ripped. Can't rip the casing until the table-saw is unearthed. Can't unearth the table-saw without going out into the rain.
So you know what? Screw it. I'm staying inside with my laptop, two lovely gentlemen and their reluctant bride, and I'm not even going to feel guilty about it. Maybe if I let myself get lost in the writing, I'll stop wondering why I live in this godforsaken soggy wilderness where porphyria sufferers roam free...