In the early dark hours of 23 June, I was woken by a biblical thunderstorm. It was as if a ginormous faulty light was flashing on and off and a thousand whips were being cracked. The crashing coursed through my imagination, bringing back a memory of the child-me imagining a very vocal God. Adult-me was grateful for the gift of steady rain as a pause in our second heatwave of the year and one that put some of us into lockdown but without outdoor exercise.
Impressive as it was – the Metro newspaper recorded 29,000 lightning bolts in the UK – what struck me was how that sky full of drama was so not planned for. Perhaps there was a foretelling when it briefly rained the evening before; yet neither by radio nor app, did I know of the storm’s coming between the headlining orange and red weather alerts.
For me, the surprise of the tremendous thunderstorm was enhanced because the only spontaneous thing I’ve lately done was to decide half an hour before the start, to go see a mid-morning showing of Michael. And, as much as I enjoyed it, the next day watching the documentary Michael Jackson: The Verdict totally eclipsed the shoulder-bopping cinema experience. Thankfully in the big screen movie the king of pop is only portrayed up until his mid-twenties, before he’s living his version of Peter Pan in Neverland.
On the predictable path of my present life, I get my surprises from other people’s events. Wouldn’t have guessed that the sixth Prime Minister in ten years was going to resign just like that, although in preceding weeks the media knew much more than I’ll ever know. Death is inevitable, but I was stumped on hearing that the artistic giant David Hockney has departed. Naturally there’s a surge in interest to buy his paintings but what a strangeness that, as with artists before him, Hockney will never witness the crazy amounts of millions being offered for his brushstrokes.
In ye olden times people would have read the sky and stared at nature to know the weather. Shepherds’ delight, fishermen’s far sight, and the whisperings of old wives. Fond as I am of folklore, thank heavens we now have the science to observe weather patterns, especially for extremes like hurricanes and in the UK torrential rain and heatwaves.
How we act to the warnings is another thing. The 2025 documentary Katrina: Come Hell and High Water by Geeta Gandbhir, Samantha Knowles and Spike Lee, stayed with me for days after I licked those three episodes clean. A while ago now, but I still remember the tsunami based on real life in The Impossible with actors Ewan McGregor and Naomi Watts, and recently I watched the 2026 fictional film Thrash. Writer and director Tommy Wirkola creates thrills and feels which are hands-over-eyes horrible because apparently sharks do swim in flooded streets after huge storms.
So here, in my non air-conned flat, I’m writing about motion pictures with too much water. Well, this is unexpected. I intended to write an ode to spontaneity, as inspired by our unprecedented thunderstorm. Finally, I would get to share one of my favourite screen watches. In The Longest Third Date (2023, Netflix) two people do something highly impulsive in March 2020 at the start of the covid lockdowns. And, my oh my, what a turn of events!
This reality documentary inspires questions about risk and judgement; and the power of calm, which I maintained during our night of thunder and lightning, as it was not ‘very very frightening.’ To continue quoting from Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody – I lay on my bed watching the bolts, in an ‘easy come, easy go’ mood, relieved that whilst I feel constantly compelled to stay in control of my life, ain’t nobody can lord it over the weather.
Cover Photo: From Typic 2 Photo Library
