Caught in the winter rainstorm on the way back from the freezing flat. Too wet and blinded by the rain in my eyes to appreciate the spectacular lightning which accompanied it.
There ought to be a completely different word for rain of this kind. It comes down in great splashing horse urine squirts rather than in drops. Given that the roofs and guttering are not really up to it, the ill-advised pedestrian walking in the streets of the old town cops a concentrated deluge from broken drainpipes, balcony drain holes, shop awnings, and most of all from speeding cars, whose drivers actually aim for the rapidly growing lake next to the pavement, so as to create the desired speedboat effect of massive bow-wave.
Still, there are compensations: when, soaked to the skin and livid with cold, I dropped in to the local boulangerie to buy bread, the boulangère (Bulgarian) cut my baguette in two and wrapped it in a plastic bag, to protect it from the downpour. Little things like that restore faith in humanity.
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You could always move to Wales; it's architecturally adapted to high precipitation.
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