On Christmas Day the rain came. There was no warning. Cocooned in our festive bubble, we didn’t realise till the evening when we looked out to find ourselves marooned. The oven was hurriedly switched off and the turkey shoved in the larder for a more suitable time. Firemen brought sandbags and words of advice but we slept badly that night and awoke the next morning to see the garden waterlogged and water gushing through the pipes surrounding the house.
We fished out dust covered wellies from the loft and trudged through the deepening water to seek help. The roads nearby were covered with puddles with huge Range Rovers steaming through them splashing any poor beggar in sight. We’d never seen Yorkshire like this. The water continued to rise until it was almost level with the front door. We looked in horror, but there was little anyone could do but hope, and pray, if that you were that way inclined. And then, as if by magic, the water subsided and kept on subsiding until the paving stones were visible again. The danger had gone and our house felt safe once more. It was time to eat the turkey.
This post was written for Sunday Photo Fiction