Ever since they started putting that detailed weather map at the back of the Sports Section (usually) in the New York Times, I've become obsessed with, of all things, the levels of water in the reservoirs that feed New York City. Yesterday, so it tells me, the reservoir levels were at a satisfying 96 percent (whereas their estimated normal is 91 percent). We're not running out of water anytime soon.

I don't quite know why I've fixated on water levels. It could be something to do with the drought we had a few years back. It could be something to do with the fact that I like the green leaves of spring not to fade to the wilted grays of sun-blasted summer. It could be my way of coping with the ever-increasing amount of heat and number of deaths from exhaustion that summer will inflict on America as the climate changes. Who knows? Given I also feel a perverse satisfaction that actual rain amounts over the last year are 63.50 inches as opposed to normal amounts of 49.69, it could simply be the fact that, ever the Englishman, I just prefer it wet.

Actually, it might be more than that. In 1976, England experienced a massive drought. I remember my mother installing a water butt to catch the rainwater from the guttering. We shared bathwater, and made sure the taps were turned off. Everybody did it; it was no big deal; and water was conserved. We don't do that in America: we just let everything metaphorically and actually drip.

Except for reservoirs. They speak of conservation and forethought; of things held back for, er, an un-rainy day. And in this consumption-drenched world, the fact that we have conserved something more than is normal is, well, as refreshing as a cool glass of water.