When it rains in London, the skies rarely open up in a menacing storm. They droop grey and dreary over the city casting shadows over commuters. Then the water spits down in half-drops, quarter-drops, a spray, really.
Brollies pop up all over the city. Some are big black golf umbrellas that rule the pavements; others fun and funky with designs of rubber duckies and tube maps. Cracks and crevices fill with water that soaks through any cracks and crevices in your shoes.
Puddles form. Windshield wipers swish on passing cars. Tyres kick up a thin, dirty mist. The street lights glow and shimmer in red and green, drops float down windows like waterslides and people walk with heads down. Quickly. When it rains in London, people rush through life, hurrying on to warm restaurants and pubs, ducking into shops, drip-drip-dripping water on the squeaky floor, tracking muddy footprints through the tunnels of the underground.
Sidewalks glow with reflections of surrounding lights and the rain carries on until the day turns into darkness.