*Traducción al español más abajo.
THE THUNDERS roared, a strong wind lashed out against the casement windows and Mr. Blake was leaning back on his bed. A heavy rain was pouring since midday and, according to the forecast, it would last until next Sunday. All of this, added to his arthritis and an acute migraine, made it impossible for old Tom Blake to sleep that night, as he stayed stock still against the headboard, breathing heavily to make himself heard to the almighty force of nature. It was just Tuesday and his prospects to get any sleep during that night and the others still to go were scarce. He tried to pick up the thread of a novel that his daughter had given him for his birthday: a romantic comedy about vampires who shine at sunlight and werewolves with superb abs; and it was crap. Regrettably, there was nothing else to do. The aerial was not working and he would have to wait until morning for the technician to go and check it out. So he decided it was better to follow through and kept going with the soporific novel. It had the effect of a big jar of warm poppy milk. The man was finally sleeping.