I drive 20km home from Janet and Sue's barbecue in darkness and driving rain. Forked and sheet lightening sends white flashes across the horizon, as if someone has flicked on a light in the dense black countryside. Meanwhile, white mist swirls up from the road like dry ice from a dance floor.
I pull up outside my house. Despite the damage - geraniums swept of the window ledge and a mound of smashed terracotta in the road - I find Biff stretched out in the window, as chilled as ever in the darkness and completely unbothered by the storm.
Water has come in through the kitchen and front doors and the hollyhocks are bent double in the courtyard, where most of the terracotta pots have been overturned. I go to bed with the thunder still rolling and the rain lashing down, thinking there is nothing like a good storm.