We were travelling to Cornwall in my Dad’s Nova. We marvelled at the colour of the troubling overcast sky, which was like nothing we had ever seen. All shades of brown.
‘Pity the poor sod who cops that,’ mused my Dad. Little did he know.
The next day, we phoned my oldest brother to let him know we had made it safely to the holiday home. He had news for us: It had rained. Hard. The river which ran behind our house had burst its banks, and silty water had risen into our back garden and in to our home.