As you get older, so you complain more about the vagaries of the weather. 

During my south-west London school time, during the late ‘60s and early ‘70s, I can never ever remember there being “wet play”. 

We had two 15-minute breaks. (I still think of a quarter of an hour as one-playtime).

As boys, we would invariably play football.  However, there were two dangers in our playground.

The only boy who didn’t play football, ran round the playground pretending to be a Ford Zodiac.  There was the danger that he’d take out our team right-back when mis-timing his turn round the school water fountain.  And a Ford Zodiac, for those who can remember, was a very big car.

The other ever-present danger was the girl who thought she was a golden retriever.  Not only could her lead get caught up with your legs as you sped down the wing towards the opponent’s goal, but there was the constant danger of catching rabies if she bit you (she had a note from her mum saying she didn’t need a muzzle).

If it had ever rained, we’d have been in our class struggling against pretend carbon monoxide fumes and the smell of wet dog.  Still, it was preferable to Music and Movement.