Storms are the best thing in the world.
I realise some of you may disagree with this, but nevertheless, storms are and will always be the best thing in the world. And sometimes, out in the English countryside in the dark, a storm can feel so powerful and so old that you can't help thinking it must be a storm that's been going on for centuries, just taking its time about going round the world.
But in London they're not like that. Storms here, by contrast to the rest of London which carries all its history written in its skin for all to see, are adolescent, showy things. Tonight's was like that - sheets and haphazard bolts of lightning, too close together; stuttering thunder, seeming to bear no relation to the light show. A young thing, a nervous thing but keen to show off the city: a church, on the one hand, lit up suddenly like a gothic heroine, curling stonework at the roof becoming, briefly, stylised hair streaming in the wind, the spire a cry to the skies. On the other hand, one sheet of light burst right behind the London Eye, turning it skeletal, sinister; further upriver I imagined the lightning paralyzing the city buildings around London Bridge, the silver silhouettes arrestingly futurist. I wish I could have gone through the whole city to watch it all.
But I had to come home, and it's warmer here, at least, and there's a bed. And that's good.