It started raining about 45 minutes ago. A winsome, windless, garden-moistening fall of rain of the kind that nobody objects to.
But these sprinklings are the outer petticoats of an overdressed battleaxe whom the meteorologists have named Gita.
Gita goes in for a hippie colour scheme.
Gita was a cyclone, officially speaking, as she tore through several Pacific island states in recent days. Since then the old cow has lost a bit of polish, a few outer layers of couture, a bit of her previous puff and force, as she traipses across the Pacific in the general direction of me.