I tidied up Samuel Beckett's grave. Twigs and leaves and stones were all over it from the previous night's storm. I wondered if he'd've preferred it tidy or not. It's a modest grave. It was the kind of storm that left large bits of tree in the road. Get the book of weather and look it up under "Whoa". We watched it up the hill, Sacre Couer, battleship clouds ejecting orange lightning all over the city below, for an hour maybe, and a hundred people applauding the sky, and the curtain of rain approaching us, and the hundred people on the hill and the steps dwindling to fiftyish, the air changing taste, and us thinking we can withstand anything the sky can drop, and in a second the rain turned to hail the size of fifty pence pieces and it hurt like glass being thrown at you and everyone ran for cover, we ended up behind a public toilet, maybe thirty of us and a few thousand shattering splashes, and the sky twitching and the clouds gliding and the ground growling, and the whole thing passed into silence.