Rain, rain, please don’t go away
THREE fine days and a thunderstorm’ is how George II disparaged the British summer. I feel that the last monarch of these isles to be born outside them failed, probably congenitally, to appreciate the necessity of rain in the making of Britain as a green and lush land.
This morning, I dwelled on George’s , the study windows open, the front lawn burgeoning before me—a lawn watered not by a mains-connected sprinkler, but natural dense, divine rain. No false British modesty: our front lawn is a spectacle, a mini
