It was one of those days. A bad hair day to end all bad hair days. Looking at the devastation in his driveway, Michael reflected that at least no one had been close by at the time. They would surely have been killed by the falling chimney.
The lightning strike itself had been bad enough. The paramedics called by worried neighbours had been quite reassuring: his hearing would come back completely after a few hours. The firemen had covered the holes in the roof with a canvas sheet. The small amount of the chimney breastwork that had fallen through inside the house had missed anything of importance, but it had taken down several ceilings on the way. The torrential rain accompanying the summer storm had done the rest all on its own.
Mikes mobile phone vibrated again. It was the garage, confirming his address.
"Just find the house with the green cover over the roof, the missing chimney, and the wrecked car in the driveway."
He could barely hear the guy over the ringing in his ears. The storm, like all summer storms, had come quickly. His house at the top of the hill had stood for some years, and he was not aware that it had ever been hit during a storm before. This time sure as hell made up for it.
Mike went inside and his heart sank as he surveyed the scene in front of him. Water still dripped down the stairwell from upstairs. Burn marks down the wall showed where the lightning bolt had come down the television aerial wire, which led it into the loft space and down to his electricity meter under the stairs. The resulting power surge had probably killed every electrical appliance stone dead. His computer system was in ruins. Fortunately he had backed up his hard drives the previous night. His data might be OK; time would tell, when he had a new kit to use.
He was startled out of his misery by a call from the front door. At least the garage was quick. He went out to find two men scratching their heads. The driver looked at him and stated the obvious.
