Okay, I don't mean it. I love my Birks, but I have finally learned, as in fully respect gotta-know-or-else learned, that you must consult, study, and ponder Weather Underground before trekking out on a seemingly sunny Norwegian September morning in tropical capri pants, tee shirt and sandals. Those steely grey nimbus clouds off in the distance portend ill to the unwary.
As I watched from my office window, the day grew colder and rainier. Even though I knew I couldn't stay holed up in the humanities building indefinitely, I put off going home. If it weren't for Bill, coming down the hill with the boys for their music lessons and handing me my windbreaker, I would surely have had to make the maddest, most miserable dash back up to the cliff dwelling we call home.
As it was, only Walter, dressed in his water-proof jacket and Wellingtons, happily jumped in puddles and scampered all the way, periodically exclaiming, "I'm not cold or wet at all."
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