Even Zylka, not at all afraid of thunder, jumped; and Thistle fled from the house, under the impression it was attacking him.

The recent spate of storms were of an abrupt nature, in that we were barely given a warning rumble before they hit.

The sky had become very dark, and I had just risen from the settee with the intention of turning my computer off at the plug.

I had experienced having a computer go up in a puff of smoke (literally) after a power surge at Candelo; in the wake of having to replace the whole system and all the files and email contacts I had lost, the Man of the house had installed a system that should have prevented any damage; but when lightning actually hits the roof, anything can happen.

One such bolt came down the hanging light fitting beneath which our family was dining when we lived at Wyndham.

The light bulb shattered into a thousand pieces, falling into our shepherd’s pie, and the fringed blue lampshade, thus released, came down over our youngest daughter’s head, putting her suddenly in complete darkness. I can still hear her muffled wails at this unexpected turn of events.

On this occasion the telephone and computer screens both lit up, and made assorted electronic beeps, so I feared the worst.

More fearsome thunderclaps ensued, so it was a while before I could check the systems.

 To my relief, they seemed to be working.

The Moth was quietly smug at the efficiency of the system he had installed – until he went to check his own computer, and was rewarded with a blank screen.

While he had made sure my computer was permanently attached to the safety system, his own was not.

The lightning had also knocked out the regulator on our solar hot water system; while it still worked, the pump would not redistribute the hot water, and we had no way of telling what temperature it was at.

The Moth had a busy morning phoning assorted people for help; because he fixes most things himself he seldom calls on others for assistance.

When he is forced to do so he discovers that those he relied on in the past have vanished from the phone book. 

He takes it as a personal affront that a tradesman he has not called for 10 years (sometimes 20) has moved, retired, or left this dimension. It is so inconsiderate of them.

I took Zylka for a walk while he was scanning the pages.

The sky was once again looking heavy, but I felt we could probably beat the next storm. 

There couldn’t be two like that on the same day, surely.

I parked the car near the hockey fields, and we began a circuit to the accompaniment of a distant rumble.

There were no other dog walkers around; I felt fortunate in having a dog that didn’t spook at thunderclaps but a little concerned that no other humans were prepared to risk it.

There was one other figure in sight, a man working on the cricket pitch in the centre of the field.

As we worked our way around, lightning flashed and the thunder became louder. A few fat drops of rain fell. I hadn’t brought an umbrella, so I’d just have to get wet.

Rather that than be struck through the spike on the top of the brolly. This storm may yet prove to be all rumble and no substance, but we walked more quickly.

That illusion was shattered by the next flash and thunderclap, almost together and right on top of us.

I haven’t run since I was attacked by paper wasps last year, but I could have won a walking race.

The field was now deserted, but as Zylka and I hot-footed it back to the car the man pulled up in his car and asked if I’d like a lift. I declined because we were nearly under the bridge, but appreciated the offer.

Thunderclaps punctuated the evening; by bedtime there was still no sign of Thistle. I feared he was lost, terrified, out there in the storm.

Dawn brought peace; I got up to make a cup of tea.

And trod on something that instinctively I knew I would not like.

A half-eaten rat, head and tail still intact, left on the mat by Thistle as a contribution to the house’s food supply.

The culprit lay sound asleep on a bed, unaware of the thunderbolt that almost descended on him.