Hooray! It’s Step In A Puddle And Splash Your Friends Day! The most splishy-splashy, welly-wearing, brolly-swinging day of the year when you’re not only allowed to cover your mates in murky water that’s tainted by bacteria, cigarettes and the odd bit of dog muck, you’re actually encouraged to do it!

A splash here, a splash there; splash his jeans, splash her dress; tell the postman he’s dropped a letter then splash his face when he bends down, causing him to reel backwards over the garden fence and land on one of the neighbour’s garden gnomes, choking and sobbing with mail flying all over the place. Splish, splash, splosh!

Just one snag: there’s barely a cloud in the sky. Everywhere is strangely dry considering it’s winter and I live in England. Not just England, either, but Yorkshire, where drizzle is the natural air filler at this time of year and dry days make people flinch wildly because there are things like bees and flies floating around. But no, not today, not on the day I really need it. Typical.

So what to do? It’s not like I can pour a bucket of water onto the street, pretend it’s a puddle and kick it all over a friend. Oh wait, yes I can. In fact there’s nothing stopping me whatsoever, other than the repercussions of looking like a crazy person and potentially losing a friendship. I pondered over this for a moment before finding the simple solution: do it to my brother; he knows I’m weird and he’s not allowed to stop being my friend because we’re related. Good old Dave.

The story itself is short and I’ve pretty much told it anyway, but here goes. I invite him round for a DVD and a few beers; I manufacture a puddle in the front garden before he arrives; he knocks at the door, I open it and ask him to move back a few feet, he unquestioningly complies; I step outside and splash him; he swears, half splaying his arms and gaping downwards the way people do when they’ve been drenched by a passing bus; I request a high five but am left hanging. How unsporting.

As a goodwill gesture, I throw over a towel and invite him inside, where a cold beer and warm radiator await us both. It takes him a minute or two to break free from mute astonishment and enter the house, carelessly dripping all over the carpet.

Job done, yet somehow he sees neither the funny side nor the decency I presented. I guess some people just don’t appreciate the simple pleasures in life; he should splash in puddles more often.


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