6:00 am, and my furry brown feline Burmese overlord is making it abundantly clear that it is way past what he considers to be a reasonable hour for breakfast.
The only sensible option here is to submit to his wishes, otherwise the situation could quickly escalate towards headbutting and a lot of extremely loud protest yowling.
I collapse out of the bedroom in the general direction of the kitchen, and have only just enough time to register how dark the morning is, when the hall is illuminated by the harsh slash of lightning. A half second later the windows are rattled by a low bass cascade of thunder that seems to go on for 30 seconds.
Looking out, I now see that a monstrous storm is rapidly advancing towards us. It’s a true whopper alright, spanning the entire horizon, and spitting out volley after volley of electrical havoc.
Back towards Denmark, it’s bleaching eyeballs with guillotine blade sheet lightning, and right above us the atmosphere is being ripped apart by evil arcs of fire that seem to be shooting sideways from a particularly vicious looking bank of cloud.
Another rumble of thunder sees Mrs. Teaist suddenly awake, not wanting to miss such a celestial showpiece, despite it being silly-O’clock.
We go out onto the balcony for a better view. It seems perfectly natural to take our morning tea out there, too.
I brew up the usual pot of green gunpowder, as the skies continue to darken in a worrying fashion.
Just as I come back out with the tea, the wind surges out of nowhere bringing rain with it, whipping onto the balcony, resulting in the frenzied dragging of tables and chairs back into a much reduced dry zone.
And there we sit, quietly sipping our tea on the outer fringe of chaos, as the heavens above boil and rage, and the rain lashes, and a near tornado screeches and howls.
With superb timing the last of the amber liquid is drained from our cups just as the trailing edge of the maelstrom skids past, the bulldozing front section already ruining lie-ins and terrifying pets far inland.
All that’s left in the wake of the drama is a moderately windy, wet street that could easily pass for mid-November, and two cups and a pot that need rinsing out.