Impossible to get across town directly, so we had driven miles, repeatedly encountering the barrier that was the disaster of the flood. Eventually, we left the car and walked, joining the almost silent, stunned ranks of all those on their way to see the consequences for them of all that rain.
His house - on Greystone Road. We could just see where it was, in the distance around the curve of the street. The roofs of the parked cars showed exactly how deep it was just there.
That was the start of it. This long, long journey of salvage and restoration. The filthy water drained away almost offensively quickly - caring nothing for the destruction it had caused.
Where do we start? The phone calls, emails, insurance companies, builders, landlords. The kindness of strangers and community. The cruel voyeurism of the media. all to be negotiated, accepted, endured. So many beautiful possessions - an art deco chair, a walnut wood piano - just sodden stuff piled outside.
And it goes on. It's not over. Even when all is repaired, redecorated and refurbished, the fear will still be there. Whenever it rains the city holds its breath - and waits for the next time.
Teacher Trinity School