It’s Saturday morning (although only just). I’m lying awake a little after midnight and I’m surrounded by much more noise than normal. There’s rain relentlessly beating down outside and I can hear the high-pitched squeal of water sloshing over gutters. The rhythmic sound of the rain is punctuated periodically by groans of thunder.
Inside the castle it’s pretty noisy too. My tics’ve been excited by the weather and I’m shouting at the lamp-post even more than usual.
“Lamp-post, you need a cagoule.”
“Lamp-post, you’re not as bright as lightning.”
“The lamp-post is moister than a swimming pool in the rainforest.”
“The lamp-post is moister than Barbara Streisand’s knickers.”
“The sky is brighter than the whole of Mensa and the lamp-post.”
But my tics aren’t the only ones being triggered by the storm. Ruth’s here to provide my overnight support and I can hear her calling out into the night too: “Jesus is crying,” and “Strike them with lightning, form an orderly queue.”
The heat and relaxed water play of the other day seem a world away from the dramatic, noisy, sodden sky that’s outside the window now.