I had a few minor things to catch up on, and the sky had become overcast before I could set off, though it was still a pleasant day, so a walk to Somerfield was still an enjoyable idea.
I'd just walked past what used to be the newsagents when the first drops fell. Fine, almost impalpable, and I smiled and thought "Spring rain. How refreshing!", breathing in the quickening air.
Then it hit. There was no crescendo; all at once, it rained. Hard. So hard the the air grew almost opaque with the volume of water. Great splats hit the pavement and rebounded, I'd say, three or four inches with the force of their impact. There was no place to take shelter, and, even had there been, I was already drenched.
It was slackening a little - but only a little - by the time I reached Somerfield. I squelched up and down the aisles collecting bread and binliners and butter and flour; milk and sugar I deferred for the corner shop on the way home. By all sense I should have left the flour, but I felt like baking tonight; somehow the conjured scent of yeast and hot bread seemed to make all the wetness worthwhile.
The rain had stopped completely when I left the supermarket. The sun was back, though a little ashamed, and the air pulsed with the scents of spring.
Now I'm home, and soaked, and I'm going to pull off all these wet clothes and take the hot bath I've been running as I've typed, and smile contentedly.