Month: Jul 2021

There were no police anywhere near here last night. I was expecting them, and I had my story ready.

None came.

It all started a couple of hours after we went to bed.

It was quite frightening, being shaken awake to instantly face the most brilliant flash of lightning anyone has ever seen, and a massive, electrical explosion of at least five thousand decibels.

Once the awful sound that reverberated between my two ears had subsided, and my eyes had started to transmit something other than white light to my brain, the real problem took over.

The roof was leaking.

Badly.

It was leaking through the roof of the first-floor bay window, into our bedroom – from where, I learned a few panicky moments later, it poured through the floor and into the sitting room below.

Catastrophe. On two floors!

I was called upon to do something other than hide under the duvet.

Reluctantly – but with considerable haste generated by the chambermaid’s vocal encouragement – I got out of bed. The lightning still flashed and the thunder still roared, but it was quite clear that absence of a determined attempt to divert the south of England Niagara Falls would be considered a serious failure with equally serious consequences.

 In between the explosions, the ‘plip-plop-plink’ of water dripping into dozens of dishes and bowls melodicised the superhuman effort by the cleaning lady who had deployed them to save the carpets from permanent damage.

“Where’s the torch?” The tiny, ‘pretend model’ on my bedside locker is just about powerful enough to light the face of the bedside clock. I already knew it was ‘uncivilized time’. I needed something a little more powerful to go leak-hunting on the roof of the bay (new lyrics?).

First I needed some lightweight clothing. No hope of searching for anything light and waterproof in my wardrobe, that kind of stuff is in the back of the car, under the floor of the boot which is currently supporting various bits of boat and other sundries that we deem essential ‘in-case-of-breakdown’. So shorts and T-shirt was the only option.

I donned the operations attire, ventured out into the storm via the back door and was already uncomfortably wet before the rain-laden leaves of the Buddleia by the shed door ‘fluttered a little’ and filled in any dry patches.

I ‘oiked’ out the long step ladder and proceeded, bare-footed so as not to soil the carpet on the stairs, up to the bedroom on the second floor, where John, our youngest son rubbed his eyes theatrically and asked, helpfully, if anything was wrong and could he help?

“Go and make your mum a cup of tea” I said, (with just a modicum of sarcasm).

I went back down to ground level and resourced a waterproof sheet with which to protect the bed beneath the window that I would have to open. On my way past the shed I picked up my bike’s front light – brilliant flash of inspiration.

Back up in the clouds a lightning duel was being fought with brilliant flashes of brilliance and very loud explosions.

I opened the window and lowered the step ladder onto the roof tiles. The feet of the ladder rested on the roof of the bay window which was pretending to be the bottom of a swimming pool.

I climbed out of the window and onto the ladder.

There was another brilliant flash and an almost instantaneous explosion. I didn’t feel anything except giant raindrops hammering into my back.

I stepped down into the pool. Up to my ankles.

I was show-stoppingly drenched in bright, white light and almost deafened by the noise – blind and deaf as well as almost being a part of a miniature lake.

Then it was dark again. I shone my bicycle front lamp hither and thither, but I knew where the trouble would be.

I imagined that by now most of the neighbours would have reported torchlit activities on the roof of 245 to the police.

Kneeling in the puddle I felt under the eaves for the unsuitably small drain. I pulled out handfuls of dead leaves and the decomposing carcass of a dead bird which had been stopping the water from disappearing down the ‘plug’ole’. The water drained away.

I stood up and looked around: no police cars in sight – too rough for them I s’pose. I bowed just in case I had an audience.

Then the rain stopped.

I climbed in through the window, pulled the ladder up after me and viewed the indoor effects of the storm.

The next day’s activities were already programmed.

Our next door neighbour is a policeman, I shall make sure he’s aware of the force’s shortcomings.