I’m looking out from the roof terrace of a tall building in London, I’m guessing it’s a hotel. Early morning. From here I can see that the whole city is flooded, with all the nearby homes and businesses submerged to somewhere above their ground floor windows. It’s probably a good thing that I see no other people. I’m equally reassured by the absence of abandoned vehicles in the streets. Whatever happened, it seems that everyone had some warning of it.
David joins me at the corner of the roof, glances down into the street and immediately regrets it, emitting a nauseated gurgle as he backs away. He’s terribly hungover, still wearing the same clothes he had on last night. One side of his hair is sticking out sideways at all angles. I ask him if he’s been to the same barber as Boris Johnson. David tells me (redundantly) that he’s really, really hungover. Continue Reading