And so the bad news continues to rain down. Rain down like one of those black-sky catastrophes you see in American disaster movies, where the toothless old man rocks back and forth in the chair on his rickety porch, looks towards the clouds gathering on the horizon, and mutters “storm’s a-comin”, to no-one but himself. But he knows. He knows.
Like a rain that, contrary to any sort of logic, contains literal cats and dogs. And not nice fluffy cats and amiable waggy-tailed dogs. No, the sort of stray felines you see on Greek islands and the outskirts of Turkish holiday resorts, which hiss if you come within 10ft of them; the sort of scar-faced tomcats that, at some point, have lost an eye fighting, but are happy to fight you too, come on then, what you lookin’ at,