Whilst the terms of a possible new deal between the UK and the EU are being scrutinised and the people of the Americas begin planning defences against the Zika virus, some of us have been forced to focus on a story that grips to the very marrow. I shall not go into details for fear of unncessarily distressing some of my more sensitive followers but let this sinister panel, clipped from today's BBC website, tell its own, blood-curdling, story.
Oh, my jammy dodgers and ginger nuts, my custard creams and rich teas, my garibaldies and bourbons of long ago. Washed away in the rising waters and lost to us, abandoned on the flood and drifting helplessly into the gathering murk of a winter's night, never to be dunked again. We hear their pitiful cries of distress but can do nothing. We must be strong to bear this, e'en as we have born disaster of yore. Who can forget the terrible months of the Branston pickle shortage? Whatever happened to the dark chocolate Penguin? Have the faith, my people. Surely the biscuits will come back to us over the foaming deep, one day, one wonderful day of hope in the glorious future.
Whether floods can actually spark anything is a fascinating question into which, I fear, I do not have the time or patience adequately to explore. [Technically no, unless a live electrical appliance is in contact with the water and there is some other apparatus in which a spark might be induced. Or something. But even then it would be the appliance doing the sparking not the floods. OK? Ed.]