the rain it raineth every day

English weather suffers from a very bad case of indecisiveness. One moment there is the most satisfying, full downpour and you think that perhaps you shall go out and run in it, but by the time you've gotten your shoes on it has changed to a spineless sprinkle. Then it weeps awhile, big inconclusive drips that won't let you need to open your umbrella but still manage to get you very damp. And then suddenly the sun is shining with great vigor, making a damp warmth creep through your clothes. Finally, you think to yourself, it's made up its mind. You shake your umbrella of its pearly drops and get ready to enjoy the bright blue sky washed clean by rain- and suddenly it is raining again.

This makes for a curious phenomenon- umbrella traffic jams. Walking down Cornmarket Street in Oxford, you see hundreds of umbrellas vying for space on the sidewalk. You have to move your umbrella sideways or raise it up above the crowds in order not to be guilty of umbrella-space hogging. Sometimes you accidentally swipe someone else's Burberry parasol, and then it is imperative to avoid eye contact lest you find yourself withering under the disdainful look of a British yuppy. There doesn't seem to be much of an etiquette for umbrella traffic; it is each man or woman for themselves as they protect themselves from the elements. This is when you realize that sometimes, being gracious and magnanimous simply won't do. You have as much right to stay dry as the next British person, even if you are a foreigner and (worse) an American. Being chivalrous in your umbrella-wielding will not be enough to convince your fellow pedestrian that perhaps the Yanks aren't that bad after all.

It is at this point that I come to my senses, realize I do not really need an umbrella anyhow, and allow myself to be exposed to the whims of the British skies.