Ah, that familiar 'wet dog' smell!
Some years ago, long before the dung-eaters got their grubby hands on Wattisham, I was volunteered to 'command' a freedom march through Ipswich. There would be the RAF, some RAFA, ATC etc all following my sword-toting stroll through the streets.
Come the day and the weather-guesser said that there might be the odd spot of slight drizzle, but nothing worse. So, Plan A was to get out of the bus at the drop-off point, meet the old timers and cadets, then march down to the god-shop. Plan B (if pissing down) was to take the bus to the god-shop.
The 'slight drizzle' began to look a little more than 'slight'; in fact distinct raindrops could be seen on the road. But nothing short of a cloudburst or nuclear war was going to persuade the old buggers of RAFA to take the bus. So off we all went....and at about PNR the heavens opened!
We arrived at the god-shop pretty well soaked, then steam came off our uniforms as we did the stand up and pretend to sing, kneel down and mumble, daydream through the god-botherer's sermon routine, then fall in outside looking rather less than pristine in crumpled No.1s which by then smelled of wet labrador.
Off we squelched, with a copper on a motorbike keeping our path clear. Only one minor idiot, some peacenik on a pushbike, tried to obstruct us. "Tell him to piss off or I shall stick this sword through his spokes, then up his arse", I hissed to the motor-plod. "Move along now, sir" was what he actually said to the bloke.
We finally made it to the RAFA building bordering on hypothermia. But the old boys had loved it, they'd marched through the town with medals clinking and were as proud as Punch. So they pressed copious libations on us until we finally poured ourselves back on the bus and made our way back to the station!
Met men - aren't they truly wunnerful!