There I was, walking along, drenched and cold, wishing for the beautiful warm bed I had just left and the lovely mug of tea I would have been enjoying if I had stayed home and decided it was too wet to go to church.
My shoes were already wet, the wind was blowing in my face, and I was beginning to wonder whether I would survive the journey. I turned to my friend and said, “We need to go shopping.” Mind you, this is England.
For those of you who know nothing about this place, let me enlighten you about the weather. It is unpredictable. That is the short version. The longer version is that it can be “wet,” “very wet,” or the kind of wet that makes you question why you left the house in the first place.
On a serious note, the weather here has a mind of its own. It can be so wet that if, by chance, you put on the wrong pair of shoes in the morning, as I did, you may end up spending money you did not budget for. It is almost as if you have to be bonded with the weather to know which shoes to wear and which ones to avoid. You may ask about the forecast, and I can tell you they had been predicting snow for months, yet we had not seen a single flake. But back to me and my shoes.
There we were, trying not to be blown away by the wind, not to mention the rain that came with it. My shoes were soaked, and we were not even halfway to church. The umbrella did no good; in fact, we had to protect it from the unpredictable winds that destroy umbrellas so badly that you look up to heaven and thank God you were created human and not umbrella.
If I were an umbrella living in Britain, I would hide behind the shelves and pray nobody chose me for the rain. The winds rip them apart without mercy, and I wince on their behalf. But I digress. Shoes.
So we stopped at a supermarket, where I bought a pair of gumboots. You are probably wondering why I did not just go back home and skip church, or why a little rain and wind required an emergency shoe purchase.
If you live in Africa and love the rich, warm rain and the coolness it brings after a hot day, then I envy you right now. However, if you plan on moving over here, I shall make it my mission to educate you on British weather, which I myself am still trying to comprehend. English weather is on another level. When it rains in winter, people somehow call it warm. When the sun shines in winter, do not be deceived and think it is a good day for the beach. On the contrary, my friend, find your warmest coat, hat, and gloves, and prepare yourself. OK. I am done rambling.
As I was saying, my feet had frozen from that little rain and wind. I had to get out of those cold, wet shoes, take off my socks, and step into the boots. I had been told to prepare for winter, not for rain in winter, so I prepared for snow—which, of course, never came.
We finally got to church 20 minutes late and found two seats. As I put my things down and tried to preserve what little body heat I had left, a tiny little hand slipped into my cold one. I glanced down and saw a little boy looking up at me. I cannot remember the colour of his eyes, only the sweetness of his smile. I was so taken aback that it took me a few seconds to respond.
He was a darling. He let go of my hand, then took it again, smiling up at me all the while. For those of you who do not fancy children, this little angel would have melted the walls around your heart. His gleeful little smile took my breath away, and the frustration of being wet seemed to fly out the window.
I did become conscious of his parents looking at me with smiles on their faces. My hands were cold—I mean very cold—even though they had just come out of my warm gloves. So, now you are getting the picture: do not play in the rain over here if you are used to dancing in it like someone I know.
At that moment, I thought I should let go of his little hand, but his fingers clasped around mine so firmly that I could do nothing but hold on. I looked up to heaven and silently asked God, “Is this your way of apologising?” I laughed, smiled down at him, and nudged my friend beside me.
All the while, he was sitting on his daddy’s lap. He looked up at both parents with a beautiful smile, as if to say, “She needs me, and I think I am doing something right.” Then he turned back cheerfully, as if to say, “They said it’s OK.”
That little gesture from a sweet, loving child—one and a half years old, at least by my guess—felt like a special gift to me. I had arrived cold, wet, and slightly frustrated, but that tiny hand and gleeful smile warmed my heart. I made him my little angel.
Goody'Nglish 