No need to fake reality TV conflict with the world outside falling apart

OUR grandparents used to tell stories of terrifying storms they had witnessed. Beatrice Coogan wrote a novel about the night of the Big Wind, a legendary storm.

But flash floods in August? The Dublin Port Tunnel awash? The M50 impassable? Once the weekend rain started, I placed tightly rolled towels along the windowsills in what we laughingly call the sunroom. The windows in that room have seen better days and when the negative equity headache wears off, we’ll get them replaced. In the meantime, they leak like the Titanic.

When I went to check on the wetness of the towels halfway through Saturday, I realised this might be more than a dampness issue. This was climate change wanting to be taken seriously. The sunroom was ankle-deep in water. Not through the windows, although they were making an energetic contribution. A river was running through the room, its source the underside of the outside door. I’ve been meaning to make up a few sandbags, but wasn’t sure if I had to ask the local authority or the Department of the Marine if it was okay to nick a few bags of the local beach material, so I had put it off.