It was a night of wind, of rain and of mighty blows from Thor. Kathy was off and away,
studying a comic strip of Highblast Moors, a classic book that was to spawn a musical
starring Cliff Richard. A sharp clap, and pronto! not driving rain now, but a cloudburst,
with accompanying lightning, now compact, now forking around, and a crash, crash
whipping twilit fronds into a fury, as you might say. Thin strands of rain got in
around Kathy’s ill-fitting window, by dint of vigorous draughts of air ramming and
forcing admission, using an instant glut of rainfall that had no truck with humanity,
crop or shrub: as did not that cosmic banging that had you jumping out of your skin,
just as a child might do; as did not that stormwind that practically put a gag on
Kathy’s family’s prandial gong.