I’m going to interpret this week’s challenge using the slang meaning of the word: canned=drunk.
Now… have I ever mentioned I like water? If not, I’m mentioning it now; water and everything associated, i.e. mud-puddles, wet asfalth and earthworms, the smell of a fruit garden on a misty morning or the deafening battery of rain on a summerhouse roof …et.c. …et.c. …, is what makes me high as a kite.
If we get any rain at all during the summer it usually hangs around for an hour or two before it’s hot as Hades again, leaving not even a bunny cloud to suggest there was ever such a thing as water in this world.
A couple of weeks ago I was down by the beach, still early and practically all alone, just enjoying the weather. Because even though it was still dry, the skies were all colour and the horizon barely visible in the mist. And way out there, far far away, so far away that one would never’ve guessed it had it not been for the smell of rain coming in, the clouds were pouring. And best of all, this time it was coming right our way, not just passing so tauntingly out of reach!
So, I stood there waiting until the first drops arrived, waited a little more, and then walked home in the rain, feet happily wet, body tingling, head light and empty. That was me getting tipsy.