The Grapes of Wrath
We sat on the terrace drinking wine, stuffing crisps in our faces and marvelling at the thunder and lightening, and wondering if, like Jean de Florette , the storm would pass us by without a drop of rain falling. How wrong we were...the heavens opened and hailstones the size of marbles started pelting down. Anna, my wife, realised she had left the roof of her car down and disappeared into the night shrieking. Her screams emanated from the darkness as her little head (she has to buy hats for children of 4-6 years of age), was peppered from above. The next day as we assessed the damage I felt a sense of loss seeing all the roses and potted geraniums, which had been looking glorious in a riot of colour, decimated to stalks and shredded leaves. The vegetable patch, whose content I had nurtured from seed looked as if someone had strafed it with a machine gun. And the water lily resembled a Swiss cheese. Still, it was a dramatic opening to my brother's visit. He was with ...