Not a soccer mom

Nobody ever mentioned the rain. People don’t talk about California and wet weather in the same breath.

But it has poured solidly and relentlessly, it seems to me, for weeks.

Meanwhile a giant, wailing, gleaming fire truck has just driven past the front of our house. They are so much more exciting than British fire engines: the glossy red and silver livery, the sheer size and shininess and the macho men on a mission still gets me every time. (Can’t be fire, surely — probably flooding.)

Very “Rescue Me” (”They save us. But who saves them?”)