Joe Thompson was waiting for the flood.
He’s got a treehouse built up in the old oak, and every day he loads it with a few more tins.
You’d expect him to be churchglue, but he’s a normal suburban guy. Wears a suit. Has little black-rimmed glasses. Works for the Met Office.
On reflection, maybe that’s more worrying.
“It’s just preparation,” he said. “Like an ISA. A little bit, now and then, gets you set for the future. Doesn’t suit me, worrying every time we get a shower.”
“I don’t do that.”
He smiled, after a fashion. “You will now.”
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