Alison McQueen


Every Cloud, And All That

The monsoon broke early this morning. I heard it outside the window. Great crashing explosions of thunder. Bolts of lightning splitting through the sky. Then the rain, like stair rods. The hotel cat, Lucy, a skinny little white thing with cream patches, is not happy. She doesn’t like the storms, and wanders around howling. I love storms, the more violent the better, and have been up since six, drinking tea and watching the landscape disappear behind the weather. 

The bug I picked up is still very much with me. The upside is that I have ten staff at my constant disposal, bringing me things they hope will make me feel better, rushing around putting fans on wherever I decide to sit. I am their only guest, and it seems that they are utterly thrilled at having somebody to look after. The decision to stay put is a no brainer. It’s the best writing environment I could have hoped for – total silence, except the thunder and rain and Lucy’s occasional yowls, and a chef wringing his hat in concern as I try the clear vegetable soup he made for me specially.