up on the guttering, as I ram the broomstick into the downpipe, trying to free the pine needle gloop. The junction springs loose and I have to fashion a hook from some door trim and lean out further, while the storm builds its charges. At the first dazzling strike I note my metal pole, a lunatic on the roof with his beckoning rod and each flash a crack in the sky. It can go too far, this caretaking lark. I pause and take stock, retreat for a mug of Monsooned Malabar.
