Hunting season.

You've Got ... Weltschmerz.

Painting of an 1881 theatre fire. Photo taken Vienna City Museum, August 2024.

The colour of the sky was opal grey, upturned like an oyster shell.

It’s because of Hurricane Milton, I told my son as we walked to school. Away over in the Gulf of Mexico, it changes the tone of the sky even here on the other side of the Atlantic.

He was incredulous. “No way.”

“It’s true. It really is that big. Here, look at this video of NASA flying over Hurricane Milton. Look how massive it is.”

He watched the video. I brushed some hair off his forehead.

“That was your great-grandpa’s name, you know. My grandpa.”

“Wait, really? That was his name?”

“Yes, grandma’s dad. The one who fought in WWII and landed in Normandy. Your great-grandpa. Didn’t you know that was his name?”

“No. What a cool name.”

He was quiet for a moment and we walked on.

“I wish my name was Hurricane Milton.”

—

Driving through the village later, I detoured past the pub.

I don’t do this often. The state of the world—a particular upcoming election—leaves little room