Ian Whybrow

Yesterday I stood up to my knees in cold water, leaves swirling round my gaping Crocs, feeling for the drain-cover in the courtyard behind our flats. My neighbour Sneha stood bravely beside me with a broom. The water cascading from the gutters above came down with a punch that made us gasp and swear. I scraped skin from my knuckles, felt my nails splintering and my rep as a calm, gentlemanly sort of cove being ripped to shreds. Finally I clawed the thing off and the lake tipped and curled its maelstrom way down a satisfyingly gaping square plughole. I screamed for joy. Sneha raised her broom like Boudicca and snarled. We ran. I haven’t spoken to her since but I feel we have peeped over the edge together and seen something new and primal in ourselves. Marlowe and The Heart of Darkness or what?

This morning we wake to the news that librarians in Birmingham organised a sleep-over party so that kids could read Harry Potter togther. I should feel happy about that. Another deluge dealt with. How come I feel its waters lapping around my neck?