In Which Pither Contacts the Met. Office.

Who says there's nothing to do round here of a night? Not me, that's for sure!

I was treated to some random and intense excitement this evening after the Very Soon To Be Ex-Mrs Pither wandered in from the garden, tab on and empty wine bottle in hand, and said: "Something's flashing."

She promptly jettisoned her bottle, reached for a fresh one from the fridge, switched on the telly and sat down to watch Newsnight. Not another word.

That turned out to be a typical example of Mrs P's lack of enthusiasm/total indifference over matters I consider to be of burning import - like the day I asked her to marry me. We were on a paddle steamer going down the Nile. It was sunset and we were alone on the top deck. I had ordered champagne. I popped the bottle......and then the question. "Will you marry me?" I asked, staring deep into her bloodshot eyes. She squinted, trying hard to focus on me, took a swig of her fizz, considered the enormity of the situation and replied................"S'pose". Ah, the passion, the magic, the romance! Celia Johnson, wring yer knickers out!!

"Something's flashing" could have meant anything. Some vagrant in the garden exposing himself by the fish pond? A scale model of the Hindenburg tethering up by the rockery, perhaps? I had to go out to investigate and, plonking myself down on the rotting garden furniture, I waited to see what or who was flashing.
Just then, half of the sky lit up momentarily. It was so fleeting that I thought my eyes had deceived me but, a minute or so later, there it was again. A dull flash, admittedly, but definitely there, far, far away, low down and stretching across the horizon. Then another, and another, and another, each about three or four minutes apart. Totally silent but menacing all the same.

What the Hell was happening? I stood up and was about to feverishly share my excitement and incredulity with STB EW when, glancing through the patio window, I noticed she was trying to build a pyramid out of used fag packets and had reached a critical point so it was best not to disturb her.

I ran instead to my computer, Googled "Meteorological Office/Contact Us" and was on the phone quicker than you could say "I'm not a loony but I think the Martians are landing". It was a bit ambitious, I thought, expecting some weather drone to be at the office night and day, but to my surprise a little man took the call. In truth, I have no idea how tall he was. I use the word "little" in a condescending way, not an empirical one. "Hello, can I help," came the voice. I instantly pictured my little man sitting on top of the Met Office roof, surrounded by jam jars half full of rain water, home-made, knitted windsocks and piles of charts detailing average precipitation across Britain since the Crimean War.

"Hello, I'm not a loony but I think the Martians are landing," I said.

"Oh yes. And why would that be?"

"Well, there's these lights," I explained breathlessly. "They're right across the sky and they keep flashing."

"Well, they would, wouldn't they," he said mysteriously.

"Come again."

"There is a severe weather situation across South Wales at the moment. There are intense lightning storms and that's what you can see."

"Oh," I said, somewhat disappointed. "So, no landings then?"

"Sorry."

"...or global nuclear conflict?"

"Nope."

"...or time-to-build-a-boat-style atmospheric conflagration?"

"Not according to the currently available data, no."

"Oh. Well, just thought I'd ask. Nice talking to you. What's your name by the way."

"I'm not allowed to give out sensitive, personal information over the phone. Goodbye."

Phew! Well it was fun while it lasted. Ok, turns out we're not all doomed - everyone outside South Wales at any rate - but it got the old ticker racing, I can tell you.
Who says there's nothing for kids to do these days? I woke Mrs Pither from her slumbers in the armchair and put her mind at rest before retiring for the evening. She seemed relieved.