Weather stories

Delivering newspapers on a summer’s day in Manchester, I was compelled to consider the existence of God.

I was thirteen years old and for the first time enjoying a male sense of territory as I steered my Chopper bicycle around my patch. It consisted of large suburban executive homes with long drives, double garages and fierce dogs. The weather was strange, like a mediterranean day: heavy shower followed by bright sunshine. Everywhere steam was rising from the pavements.

I felt thirsty and noticed a number of milk bottles on a doorstep. One less would make little difference, I thought. As I reached down to clasp the neck of the bottle, a bolt of lightning flashed between my fingers, made a hole in the cap and burnt the side of my thumb.

Seconds later I was pedalling like a maniac back down the drive. As thunder roared overhead, I wondered, like Jonah, how I would ever escape from this Old Testament God who now had me in his sights.

Manchester, 1977
Submitted online by Richard Davies, January 21, 2004