*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.
