I have not yet commenced to construct an Arc, but the constant downpour outside my abode has on several moment fostered that inclination. I was born into a land of misty mornings, abundantly moist days, damp, and puddle strewn nights, yet still these ancient bones complain, shudder and shiver at such relentless continuity, hour after hour, making for instantaneous sodden shoes and soaked hat at the merest hint of exposure to the great outdoors.
We have as yet accomplished nothing remotely akin to the biblical score of forty days and forty nights, though it is difficult to judge as rainy inactive days tend to merge one into the next with disturbing ease. The pitter patter of raindrops soon takes on the shape of regrettable familiarity, like that odd uncle we all had and desperately avoided in all possible circumstances. Whom of you, like me, remembers the height of summer when we begged for the tiniest droplet of precipitation, proving beyond doubt that the weather ever guarantees capriciousness in the human beast.