CHAPTER ONE – T
he imperfect storm
Bellicose thunder belly-rumbled, furious forked lightning crackled and fizzed; the firmament was fundamentally upset. The brooding, bloated, slate-grey sky gushed and sobbed, its miserable tears battering,
rat-a-tat, like the military drumming of tiny marching Orangemen on a thousand protesting Roman Catholic umbrellas. Suddenly……
MYSELF: Hang on! What’s all this?
READER: It’s my Irish novel. I’m trying to finish it before lockdown gets lifted.
MYSELF: An Irish novel Bejabbers! That’s more like it, so it is! What’s it about?
READER: Well I don’t exactly know yet, I’ve only done the first page.