We had a massive electrical storm last night. The thunder was louder than anything (thunderish) I can remember in over a decade and vast sheets of lightning illuminated an otherwise gloomy sky. One consequence for this household was a fried modem, sunny-side up. Another consequence was one angry teen, cut off from his digital drip-feed, rudely detached from the holy screens of pixilated gibberish.

"But what am I to do all weekend?" was his plaintive rejoinder.

What indeed? I tried to recall a similar kind of incident from my youth, something that equated with that long, dark stare into a hellish space. But really, there was nothing. Blackouts were fun, never mind that a whole four channels of joy were on the blink. Washed-out football weekends were a little sad, but there was always plenty to be occupied with. Even boredom wasn't that bad.

I don't want to draw any conclusions - all this is merely anecdotal - nor am I up for being labelled an old fuddy-duddy. As I write this another storm is passing through, the thunder like a deep growl from a place unknown. Somewhere up, I suppose.

"My mind has thunderstorms,
That brood for heavy hours:
Until they rain me words,
My thoughts are drooping flowers
And sulking, silent birds.

Yet come, dark thunderstorms,
And brood your heavy hours;
For when you rain me words,
My thoughts are dancing flowers
And joyful singing birds."

W.H.Davies