The weather here in deepest, darkest Jockshire can't seem to make its mind up at the moment.
Saturday, which saw Mrs Wife and I host a barbecue for around 50 people, was scorching, and several of those present, myself included, ended the day a more lurid pink than they had started it.
But by the next morning, the debris in the garden was soaked by a constant, core-soaking drizzle that never seemed to depart.
This morning, after Mrs Wife and I made it to bed around midnight following a late evening showing of The Dark Knight, we were awoken around 6am by rumbles of thunder that were, well, thunderous.
And now Dungroanin' is shrouded in a mist that has rolled in, presumably from the North Sea.
Hasn't anyone told the weather that it's meant to be mid-summer?
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