By most standards a rainy day is not the preferred forecast.  I have however developed a predilection for a rainy day on occasion though not for any agricultural or other similar botanical purpose. A rainy day affords me a break, a break from myself. It is with regret that I confess what to me – and to many others who know me – is a pitiable devotion to habit. It would require but a moment to itemize my repetitive daily behaviour. Many of the indices are similar to those I adopted before retirement. The problem isn’t simply monotony. Indeed I have rather a flavour for routine and sameness of pitch.

The problem is that a sunny day is work. From the moment I arise from the lair on a sunny day I am consumed by occupation. Indeed on a sunny day – even before I escape the duvet – I suffer an urgency which preoccupies my mind, inhibits any continued rest or relaxation and disturbs my overall tranquillity and zest for life to the point of discomfort. I simply have to perform to expiate my thriving imperative to be productive or even purely mechanical to the point of satisfying some elemental appetite or need. The insistence does at least coincide with an authentic motive, one which accomplishes a demand.

By contrast the prediction of a rainy day is instantly soothing and relieving.  It isn’t that I prefer laziness; it’s just that I am relieved of necessity. The absence of necessity is in turn promoted by the unquestionable lack of opportunity which naturally legitimizes the posture. On a rainy day I haven’t the obstruction of pattern and custom. Instead a rainy day is time for indolence and isolation. It is also opportunity for indulgence, doing those things that are normally preserved for end of day after having completed the requirements.

While this contrast may invite a challenge to the stock sunny day behaviour – as well as questioning the paramountcy of any behavioural custom or commitment – the significance for me is nothing beyond variety.  The truth is that I have a passion for whatever I do. Or don’t do. It is no small element of my gusto for life that I sense the ultimate limitation; that is, I dread the day that will no doubt come too soon when I shall say “the grasshopper is a burden”. Note that the dread isn’t death; it’s the fear of inactivity, apathy and being uninvolved.

I have in the meantime arranged a number of preoccupations for a rainy day which fulfill whatever psychological perversion it is that taints my general conduct. In addition I have succeeded to add to these performances the vapour of casual refrain. Somewhere I read that rest and relaxation are not entirely offensive.