The Prophecy It was foretold that the skies would groan as black as pitch, no moon nor stars would gleam on high, the clouds, thick and tremulous, torn apart for but an instant by the terrifying bolts of Thor, violent shards eye splitting bright, a lizards tongue of heavens anger aimed to fell the mightiest of oak, to the accompaniment of thunder's deepest roar. Meanwhile the seas with tempest surge, white spumes of froth the rocks devour, no ship nor seaman's time be safe as Neptune's trident spears them down into an early grave. But despite the weather forecast we had quite a nice Bank Holiday Monday. Hobson Tarrant