Three tales: The thunderstorm that wasn’t, a night-time fly and inane chat

It is true that there are ominous dark clouds forming threatening shapes in the sky far off near the horizon towards the west. There is less natural light than I can remember at this hour of the day for some time. There is a feeling of heaviness in the air, a sense that something is about to happen.

However, up to this moment, the storm is stubbornly refusing to materialise.

I can sense my son beginning to lose interest as his concentration slips back towards his computer games console. I open the window and stick my hand outside. It is, as it has been for several weeks, stiflingly hot, although I can feel the beginning of a cooler breeze which is making the hairs on my forearm tremble.

It is hardly my fault if the tempest doesn’t come. I am merely taking my information from the weather forecast off the radio. However, because I have promised my son there is going to be a storm – a big storm – I begin to feel personally responsible for the lack of immediate drama in the weather.

“Will there really be lightning, daddy?" my son asks.

“Um yes, that’s what the forecast said.”

“And will it be the cool fork lightning?”

“Hmmm, I don’t know about that.”

“And will we be able to see it?”

“Well, I really hope so.”

Time moves on. After a while we are no longer gazing out the window. My son is playing a computer game and I am dozing on the sofa, emitting soft snoring sounds and occasional grunts. And then, at last, I hear a noise which does not emanate from me.

It begins with a distant rolling sound which steadily grows louder and more sustained, a thumping series of repetitive cracks and clanks. I jump upright, resuming my position by the window.

"Here we are son, this is it, can you hear that thunder? Hang on, no, don’t get up, it’s just the man next door bringing in his wheelie bin.”

Two: The warmer weather means open windows. Open windows mean more unwanted guests.

I struggle to sleep at night in this oppressive heat. I find myself turning uncomfortably for hours on top of the bed. Finally, I drop off.

And then seconds later I am being roughly shaken awake. My son is standing at the side of the bed.

“Daddy, there’s a giant fly in my room.”

The words are clearly expressed, but my brain is not in a place where I can digest their meaning.

“Uh?”

“Daddy, come now, I said there’s a giant fly in my room.”

I stand up with difficulty, as slow and ungainly as some huge ancient stone being hauled upright. I walk to my son’s room. In truth, I am still closer to being asleep than awake.

I cannot see much in the half-light, but I can hear the persistent buzzing of the fly. I stand listening to it.

“Don’t just stand there daddy," my son snaps. “Do something about it, I can’t sleep with that buzzing.”

I am still not thinking as I should.

“How can I do anything about it? I can’t even see it?”

“Turn on the light! Duh!”

I turn on the light and eventually spot the shining black fly in the corner of the ceiling. I have a rolled-up magazine in my hand. It is hardly a fair fight. The fly is fast, agile, alert, wide-awake. I am slow, ponderous, overweight and half-asleep. I spend 15 useless minutes following it around the room, while my son chastises my feeble efforts.

Eventually the fly moves in the direction of the window. I open it wide.

“Please, please, just fly out so I can get back to sleep,” I plead silently.

Mercifully, the fly complies. I immediately snap the window shut. I tuck my son back into bed and kiss him goodnight again.

“Can you leave the window open a bit daddy? It’s too warm.”

Three: There is a father who I occasionally meet in the car park when picking my son up from school. It is fair to say that neither of us are gifted conversationalists and our brief chats are generally composed entirely of generalities about the state of the weather. This becomes more pronounced as spring gives way to summer.

I see him in the playground during the hot spell. He is wearing shorts and sandals.

“That’s the heat now.”

“Aye,” I concur. “That’s the heat now.”

The following week and the high temperatures are not relenting. He looks uncomfortable and sweaty.

“Too hot,” he begins. “We’re not built for this heat.”

“That’s right.”

The week after and the forecasters are predicting a storm. He is still wearing sandals, but now accompanied with socks.

“There’s a storm on the way,” he says sagely. “The ground needs the rain.”

“It does surely”, I say, pawing at the tarmac with my foot as if this somehow underlines the point.

The summer holidays approach and the fine weather begins to falter. There have been several sharp showers and the temperature is diminished. He has reverted to long trousers.

“I wonder if that’s the summer gone already?” he begins. “Just in time for the youngsters getting off school.”

I go to reply before I realise that I have absolutely no moderately sensible, interesting or compelling riposte readily available. I settle instead for simply nodding my head.

It is the last week of term. The weather is grey and unremarkable.

Some might say that it defies comment. I see the man coming.

I pretend that I am having a conversation on my mobile phone.