It's raining. The day's a write-off

I got a puppy a few weeks ago and he's still getting used to his new surroundings and trying to figure out his limits for exploration. Aside from the dreaded hoover and weirdly irrational fear of his poo bin, the biggest enemy he's encountered so far is... rain. He despises it. I've bought him a wardrobe full of raincoats and dog bomber jackets for the occasion and he still looks up at me like I'm an unpopular politician that's entered a jungle-based TV show whenever I open the sliding door to the balcony and there's even the merest suggestion of moisture outside.

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In fairness, he's not the only one in the family with little appetite for it. Even though I grew up in the rain capital of the world, Scotland- the older I got the less enthusiastic I viewed the apparent national weather of my homeland.

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It wasn't always like this, I used to love the rain. Between the ages of 7 and 12, I'd wake up at the crack of dawn for Saturday morning football practice- full of joy and anticipation. If it was raining it was great news because that meant I could wear my navy blue Adidas raincoat to play. More importantly, if I scored I could celebrate with a 30ft knee slide.

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Some weeks I'd turn up half an hour early in the rain eagerly awaiting a game with no sign of anyone else. A little while later the coach would turn up umbrella in hand, look of misery on his face, and announce that due to the pitch resembling Loch Ness, there would be no game that day. Only then would my spirits be dampened.

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Rain is one of those things that gets a bad name by reputation, a bit like pineapple on a pizza. If nobody moaned about it, nobody would care all that much. Granted, ham and pineapple pizza probably won't leak through your roof unless someone's running some sort of prohibition pizza restaurant in the attic, but you get the point.

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The older I get, the more cynical I get toward nature's tears. I've lost track of the number of days I've lost over the years by peering out of the curtains, seeing a bit of rain, and deciding I won't be venturing out that day. I'll probably play FIFA with the rain settings on though to make it seem more realistic.

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According to the website ScotlandInfo, it can rain over 250 days of the year in the Scottish Highlands. If I lived there three years ago I would have probably been completely oblivious to our lockdowns!

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News, media, films, social media, and moaning friends have all probably influenced my bleak opinion of the rain over the years. Apart from that upside-down kiss scene in SpiderMan 2 or probably the whole of Singing in the Rain, it's rare that anything good happens in the rain. It's usually reserved for some sort of crime or devastation. All of these things can subliminally affect how many of us perceive and associate with it.

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I was reading Billy Connolly's autobiography Windswept & Interesting yesterday and in it, he boldly proclaims "There's no such thing as bad weather, only wrong clothes." This one line was revelatory. It unlocked an old box at the back of my mind filled with childhood memories where the weather was irrelevant. From family holidays on a rainy North Berwick beach to ponchos on the log flume at Alton Towers (It was more like Alton Showers that day). I remembered a whole host of happy days that wouldn't have happened if we'd let the weather dictate our day.

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Off the back of this, I decided I would no longer let the rain get to me anymore so I walked from Waterloo to our office in One New Change this morning and I can honestly say that when I arrived 30 minutes later soaked from head to toe it was a terrible decision and I absolutely should have taken the tube.

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What I will say is, any time I look out the window and question whether I should cancel my plans from now on, I'll try to remember the great times I've had when the weather hasn't mattered and I'll just get the umbrella out.

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Now I just need to convince the dog.