It's raining again.  Still.  Forever.  It is raining, in the glorious British metaphor, stair-rods.*  I was out last night . . . er . . . this morning at about one a.m. tipping out the saucers that most of my outdoor potted plants sit in (again), this time turning them over, and setting the pots on the resulting tiny daises.  There's a pond in front of the steps to the front door of the mews.  There's a lake at the bottom of the valley where the main street meets the old park avenue that...