I'm leaving. By the time you read this, I’ll be gone. It’s not me, it’s you.
Although weathermen (and women) are predicting a sunny change of fortune for next week, it’s too little, too late. It rained for the Jubilee, it rained at Wimbledon and you’ve already sent a chill down Olympians’ backs. You’ve rained on my parade one too many times.
There isn’t anyone else. I’m just tired of being let down. It’s like watching the England football team every time I open my curtains in the morning.
We’ve always had something of a love/hate relationship. I should have known you weren’t the one for me when you gave me sunburn in Magaluf, or when you blew my skirt up in front of my workmates even though you knew I wasn’t wearing knickers. But I’ll never forget the good times: wet playtimes, the smell of wet pavement, laughing as we made yellow snow.
But the final straw was the rumour that you were seeing someone else. I refused to believe it, I defended you. But when Linda from Accounts got back from Crete with that healthy glow only you can give a woman, I knew. I just knew. How could you?
Maybe it’s best you carry on doing your thing and I'll do mine. I’m fed up of you dictating what I should wear every day – summer wardrobe, winter wardrobe. From now on I’m going to wear what I want, when I want, rather than because of what's going on in the sky.
I’ve left all the painful reminders of you – umbrella, sun cream, cagoule – in a binbag outside the flat. Breeze by and take them soon.
Sure, you may try and seduce me by baring some sun next week but I'm stronger than that. Linda from Accounts isn’t though. Bitch.
So, F- you, Weather. F- you.
Miss C. Central
Copyright : Comedy Central UK