singin' in the rain...

There’s been flooding across the whole of the North Island this week. Houses have been washed off cliffs, posh cars are now bobbing about in the sea and several people have narrowly avoided death through landslides. We had our own drama in Raglan and surprise, surprise, yours truly was right in the middle of it.
It had been raining on and off all morning and so I’d put on my ‘Raglan Netball’ anorak, rolled up my jeans and shuffled along the road until I was picked up by a kindly motorist. By the time we pulled into town, the rain had stopped and it was a bright sunny day. Typical.
Off comes the anorak and sweater as I pop into the internet place to have a chat with Mark. (He lets me use the computers for free, now that I’m a local). As I leave the shop I notice that the sky has gone black. It’s still dry but obviously not for long and so I dash across the road to 4 Square supermarket. Inside, I can hear the rain but not see it.
It sounds heavy.
Everybody is nervously looking up at the tin roof, half expecting it to give way any minute. As I pay for my raspberry choc logs and yoghurt I can see the car-park outside. It looks like a river. I even had to rub my eyes like some comic book picture of disbelief. I probably shook my head, too.
Once outside, under the shelter of the supermarket overhang, I can really see how wet it is. There’s a gaggle of OAPs, also cowering from the weather, beside me. They look pretty stoked. This is a real adventure. Oh yes, they’ll be dining out on this tale for a while. The main road is now a torrent of muddy swirling liquid. It’s knee deep. I can tell because the cars that are trying to drive up the hill have water up to the top part of their huge 4x4 wheel trims. They are not getting very far.
It slowly dawns on me that I’ve got to hitch a ride home in this. The only decent hitching place is completely open to the elements. All of them, especially rain.
As the rhythm of raindrops hitting tin roof slows down a fraction, I decide to make a break for it. I fling off my flip-flops and wade across the road. I think I had about fifty spectators. Halfway in, the gnarliest section of the crossing, someone shouts out, “Hey you!”
I stop.
I turn towards the voice.
It is coming from a jeep with the driver’s window wound down a fraction. “You play netball, don’t you?”
“Erm, yeah.”
“I’ve seen you play, you’re really good.”
“Oh, right. Thanks.”
“Where are you from?”
I’m beginning to feel a tad foolish as I stand marooned in a muddy river, surrounded by people watching the rain and the crazy bird wading through the flooded road. Questions about my national identity and netball playing prowess seem a bit out of place right now.
“England”, I answer. I can feel amused eyes evaluating my ridiculous situation. I know that I am centre stage in literal street theatre. I feel silly.
The conversation continues despite my subtle and not-so-subtle efforts to make a dash for it. I still have no idea who is in the car and it is still raining. Eventually the voice from the Jeep says, “Well, I’d best be going, can’t hang around here in this weather!”, and they resume their slow journey up river.
I put on my best ‘I know how hilarious that was for you guys’ face and slowly swim-walk to the pavement. Everyone is smiling at me. How nice. Such a friendly town.
I’m picked up almost as soon as I stick out my thumb.
“Saw you in the road back there. I guess you’re pretty wet now. Thought you might need a lift... teehee….” Oh well, no point getting embarrassed about public humiliation, I’m pretty used to it now and to be honest I quite enjoy being the village idiot.