I'm furious. Forty days and forty nights of soul-destroying rain does not make Dolly a happy girl.
In fact, I would even go as far and say that I feel cheated. I expected more of you, Brighton. You've broken your promise of a golden summer and in turn shattered my seaside dreams. Okay, so a bit dramatic, but still, lay off the rain for a moment will you? It's my first summer as a Brighton resident and I'm rapidly losing my sense of humour.
Last year, on my weekly pilgrimage to the estate agents of this town, the sun shined like a beacon enticing me in with its embracing heat and sunniness. The streets were bathed in a golden glow and happy folk in flip-flops and maxi dresses swanned their way to the beach without a care in the world.
With this picture in mind, I informed Mr Dolly that we're not going on holiday this year and instead we shall stay and enjoy the fruits of our new home. I carried on my staycation charade with my London pals, 'go away?' I sniffily retorted. 'I LIVE on holiday. I'm spending the summer on Brighton beach, my friend.' in a revoltingly smug fashion. Oh how I laughed when I read their status updates from Thailand whilst nursing my trenchfoot.
Despite my love for Brighton, I have to admit there are few places that look more dismal in the rain than a seaside resort. All I can say is thank goodness for Lucky Voice on Black Lion Street, a padded haven of karaokeness where even the vilest of weather can't penetrate. Add nine pina coladas and Scouser named Dave and it could almost be Magaluf '94.