It was a balmy morning in May and I was en route to a conference in Leeds; global warming - a well worn subject - tiresome at the best of times and even more so when forced to sit through eight hours of jargon and waffle just to come up with a few lines of copy that may or may not find its way onto page nine of a regional red-top; and to think that I could have been covering the Boys Allowed concert at Earls Court. I never seem to get the good assignments.
   I’d left early to beat the traffic, but the roads were surprisingly clear and I found myself with an hour in which to relax before my ordeal. I had time on my hands, time to kill.
   I pulled over into a lay-by and left the engine running. Cool FM was playing Bill Withers’ Lovely Day and the sky was just the right shade of blue to drown me in a sense of well-being. I watched two Red Admirals fly in low over a patch of Foxgloves; bobbing and weaving on the breeze. Above the still waters of a lake, a squadron of rooks were dog-fighting with a ravenous crane while a choir of finches sang harmonies with the crooning Mister Withers. Time froze, and in that moment the world seemed at peace with itself.
   And then abruptly the music stopped and the DJ was sobbing, crying “why, why” over and over. That’s all he said - why, why - and the Red Admirals began pulling somersaults in my gut.
   The engine died, the radio fell silent, and a hot wind raced across the countryside towards me. With the horizon stained a violent shade of red, I sat there, open mouthed, transfixed by the sight of boiling clouds billowing upwards towards the heavens.
   And then I heard the angels scream.