Thunder is..well, thundering. All around. Upstairs, in the grey, the gods are deciding which vineyard they might decimate this morning.
We, the vignerons, are feeling distinctly puny. We have sent our wives to church, but what else can we do?
In the old days we'd be out there watching the storm approach. We would watch the curtain of hail cutting its narrow swathe. If it came towards us we would, at the last moment, light the fuse of our firework rocket grenade and hope it exploded bang in the middle of the thunderhead and interrupt all that water and ice, whizzing around, up and down, growing, accreting into lethal golf-balls of ice. Then maybe the hail would pause a few seconds and not fall on me, but then resume and blast my horrible blasted neighbour. Who deserved it.
But we have since been told that the rockets are a waste of time. Pity, that. It was at least satisfying taking a potshot at the mighty powers.
But its quietened now, while I've been writing. There is a patch of blue. No damage this time. Just rain. Olivier will spray copper tomorrow to prevent the damp turning to rot.
And we'll be fine. Till the next time.
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