A rainstorm upon St Peter's

For most of my life, I have had an aversion to rain - whenever I saw an umbrella, my spirits fell - I thought of dark skies, brimming puddles, the steamed up windows of buses -

I'd been genuinely puzzled by the spectacle of Gene Kelly singing in the rain - I slouched in the rain - I scowled at the clouds -

When I was a head teacher, I used to dread wet weather routine - hundreds of boys would be denied the opportunity to play their games of mad football - they would lope around the corridors, full of energy and high spirits - inevitably, one or two windows would be broken - tiny boys would be baited -

Len and I would be on tenterhooks until afternoon registration was underway - only then could we relax -

I can remember, too, doing my paper round in the rain - the folded copies of the Portsmouth Evening News became sodden truncheons - when I went indoors, I got cabin fever - my mum chopped up cabbage in the kitchen - I pressed my face against the lino -

Rain, in sum, for me was a harbinger of discomfort, anxiety and boredom - 

But now I think differently about rain - I was in St Peter's, having spent the afternoon strolling by the side of the Tiber - it was a humid, oppressive day - I had seen wonders -

I made my way across the piazza - the voices of the tourists were like the humming of bees - suddenly, a mad glorious storm of rain swept across the basilica - everyone scattered for shelter -

Rain spouted from gutters high overhead, spattered upon the cobbles - umbrellas bloomed - flimsy dresses were soaked within seconds - raindrops obscured camera lenses - beautiful Japanese girls smiled -

I felt my spirits soar - I heard Africans shouting - brella - brellas - due Euro - they'd scooped up their rugs of leather bags and natty trilbys - they'd swopped their wares within moments -

I walked in the rain - I was unable to stop myself - I lifted up my face to the sky - I felt the rain wash remnants of old miseries from out of me -