I've told at least eight people the same tedious anecdote in the past four weeks. My granny, I begin, likes to put on a faux Yorkshire accent and recite very long monologues by the poet, Marriott Edgar.

One such monologue is called Three Ha'pence a Foot. It tells the story of a building contractor called Sam Oglethwaite who is asked by a chap called Noah for some wood to build an ark. Sam demands a price of three ha'pence (half pennies) a foot; Noah only wants to pay a penny a foot. No deal. And then the floods come.

After 40 days of rain, Noah sails past Blackpool, the only place in the world where there is still dry land - at the top of Blackpool Tower. Noah calls out to Sam, whose chin is just poking over the surface of the water: "Now what's the price of yer maple?" And then comes the rousing finale

"Three ha'pence a foot it'll cost yer,

And as fer me," Sam said,

Related readings:  Italian masters educate me on the rights of the lord and lining up  Count your blessings, Beijingers  Don't count your dragons before they are hatched  Just call me Styrofoam

"Don't fret.

The sky's took a turn since this morning;

I think it'll brighten up yet."

"And that!" I say triumphantly to my thoroughly confused, thoroughly bored listeners, "Is what I say to this weather!"

In case you hadn't noticed, it's been raining a bit in Beijing. One day in July, the sky darkened, not exactly suddenly but swiftly. By the time I headed out from Gulou to Yonghegong, the atmosphere was already saturated with panic. You could feel it in the people, the cars, the bikes, and in the air itself. It was what you'd expect the last few moments before the apocalypse to be like.

As I stepped into Wudaoying Hutong, the heavens didn't just open - they erupted.

Yet the ankle-deep paddle through the street, the rolled-up trousers and destroyed loafers, were nothing compared with what was to come. On Saturday (July 21), at around midday, a dense cushion of smog that had been choking the city for a couple of days suddenly converted itself into a storm on a scale unseen in Beijing for 61 years. Lightning flashed within the fog cloud, thunder rolled incessantly, rain gushed down the streets.

I went to 798 Art District that day. Conveniently, I arrived just as the celestial taps turned on. I spent three hours sitting in cafes saying, "I think it'll brighten up yet," then fled into an unlicensed cab. The rain cascaded all night long. I waded to a local restaurant for dinner.

At least 77 people died that day, and hundreds of businesses and homes were destroyed. Since then, weather forecasters have pulled out all the stops, predicting torrential downpours any time the air smells damp. We have been told to suspect a lot more of this miserable weather throughout the "summer". Part of me feels as if Beijing misses hosting the Olympics so much that it's trying to turn itself into London.

In the days immediately after that Saturday, I mimicked the weather forecasters and went into crisis mode. The mere hint of a cloud in the sky was enough to get me canceling plans left, right and center to huddle in my flat with a bowl of soup to watch for the storms that often didn't actually arrive.

Then came a day when the sky was almost clear. I scoured the weather forecast. It predicted rain - but not until 11 pm. In a decisive moment, I hopped onto my bike and cycled to Sanlitun to meet my Chinese teacher. Surprise, surprise, it started chucking it down again. I battled home through a river, stopping at Yashow clothing market on the way to buy a pair of shorts to replace my poorly chosen white summer skirt, which now resembled a wad of used tissues.

It was then that I decided I had had enough. If Beijing's weather is going to go British on me, then I'm going to go British on Beijing's weather. Not, of course, the British that has you moaning about every aspect of the Olympic Games, or that orders food in foreign countries in a very loud voice that indicates the attitude: "You do speak English; you're just deaf." I mean "British" a la Sam Oglethwaite. However filthy that sky looks, I'll convince myself it took a turn since this morning, put on my big, ultra-Chinese poncho and hop onto my bike.

Beijing hates the rain. I hate the rain. But I love Beijing, and there are only two more weeks - less than, in fact - before I go home to England. Literally come hell or high water, I'm going to enjoy them.

I'll go one step further than Sam Oglethwaite - I know it'll brighten up yet. And I'll be hanging onto Blackpool Tower till it does, not budging from three ha'pence a foot.

Contact the writer at elliebuc@hotmail.com.