We were in the car. The rain suddenly became torrential and turned out among the strongest I have witnessed in my life, zero visibility and all, tree branches crashing down in front of our eyes, including on the car ahead of us, jets of muddy water springing out of sewers. In a matter of minutes. Not quite Zeeland, but a fairly good approximation, considering the scale. The car gave up three or four times on the way home (and had to be patiently resuscitated later in the garage) and it was even raining inside our flat itself: our own flood defenses (drains and downpipes and the tiled roof above us) gave up, letting lots of water pool inside the attic. It was then profusely leaking in streams down from the ceiling in the living room, in the study and in the toilet. Rags and buckets could not contain it and we were rushing to save books, notes, electrical appliances. Gizmo the Cat was touring the wet floors, nonchalant like a queen, leaving footprints everywhere. I was mopping around, wringing rags, pushing the pools of water away from power supplies and things made of paper for the best part of two hours, with water soaking my hair and clothes. Then I collapsed into an afternoon sleep where I dreamed of meeting Anthony and the Johnsons in the American South and exchanging phone numbers and emails with them; in the meantime, sounds just like out of that Greenaway film, water drip-drip-dripping into buckets, were going on for six hours, until half an hour ago.