We woke up to blazing sunshine yesterday, so decided to venture out to Riverhead with the mountain bikes.
“It’s going to rain, though,” predicted Andrew gloomily.
I ignored him, because:
a) Husband is a pessimist who often asserts things with no basis in reality or the NZ Met service; and
b) we’ve been together nearly 12 years (look, it would be virtually IMPOSSIBLE to pay attention to EVERYTHING that comes out of the man’s mouth) (although barf always gets my attention)
While I organised coffee to go, snacks, finances and dog balls, Andrew loaded the bikes on the back of the car.
As we trundled down the drive, tiny pricks of rain settled almost imperceptibly on the windscreen. Along Mountain Road it started drizzling in earnest, intensifying to rain with a definite spatter effect up Candia Road. By the time we reached Swanson, it looked like a blizzard outside.
We pulled up outside The Station Café and made a dash for it across the carpark; me with a couple of old magazines clamped to my head, Andrew using the dog to shield himself from the driving rain. Sitting miserably moist and lightly steaming over a couple of coffees, we agreed there was no point biking.
Driving home, the rain eased up, the sun sullenly emerged from behind the bank of clouds and, by the time we pulled into our drive, the elements were entirely agreeable. So we could have gone biking after all.
Evidently, the cosmos had other plans for Husband and me.
These plans being investigating the leaking differential on the Hilux, and lying on the sofa reading respectively.
Depressing that destiny’s plans for us are so pedestrian.