Boreham House under the grey pall of clouds which has covered the region for the entire day in the aftermath of political turmoil. For the most part, a period of meteorlogical calm, but cut through with flashes of actinic tension and uncertainty: an intimation of the discharge of lightning which threatens to tear asunder the atmospheric physics of the Horsingdon skyline; lightning in whose blurred, negative afterimage one is granted a brief and terriying glimpse of a world as we hope it never could be - but which we secretly fear is the way it truly is.
And in the darkness that grows in anticipation of this electrically-charged stormhead, a light appears - suddenly and unexpectedly - in the abandoned upper storey of Boreham House. Given the history of the place, such an event is replete with horrific expectation: at the very least, of a misshapen silhouette spied briefly before the lighted window, signalling the feared but long-expected return of something monstrous.
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