The skies are empty. Oh yes, except for that giant cloud of volcanic ash.

“All flights are still grounded due to a cloud of volcanic ash moving across Europe,” blasted the platform announcement yesterday while I waited for a tube train.

A hint of dramatisation suggested the announcer particularly enjoyed reading that one out. The weather graphics show an inky shape engulfing the Great Britain and leaking over into mainland Europe. The graphic repeats itself several times. There are reports of volcanic ash falling in Northern Scotland. An excitable woman from the Shetlands describes the dust. We do not see any dust, so must take her word for it.

There is no anger in the face of Mother Nature’s force and fury. Travellers stranded throughout Europe accept their fate and manage to re-book themselves into hotels, since the hotels are getting no new arrivals. One assumes that those on business trips can claim back on expenses.

And what about Iceland? We haven’t heard from Iceland! Is Iceland now scattered into the heavens like some ultimate sacrifice to the Norse gods? No — Iceland’s okay, but the local perspective just hasn’t been covered that much. Perhaps they are smugly enjoying the fact that their volcano has cut the arteries of commercial air travel. This is for you, capitalist bastards! If we’re going down, we’re taking you with us! The TV footage cuts to a clan of Icelanders shovelling coal into the base of their volcano.

ITV news (a second-class news channel) flights a piece on the perils of inhaling volcanic dust and advise people to go indoors and close the windows if they start feeling short of breath. Batten down the hatches, frightened England, or the fire will consume you.

Radio reports come in that Ryan Air (a third-class economy airline) is only flying again on Tuesday. How will they recover their costs? Perhaps they will start charging people for oxygen on the flight. What a brilliant idea — those masks which pop out when the cabin depressurises are a hardly-used ‘money pit’. I know I’ve never used one before and if I needed to breathe I would happy hand over my credit card. In the next news segment they’ve drafted in a ‘Volcano Expert’. Yes, I know a volcano has erupted. Thanks Volcano Expert. Thanks ITV.

A big waft of smoke billows into my face. But there are no traces of Pumice or Obsidian or granules of Björk in this smoke. There is some sausage, chicken and burger though. I turn the meat on our braai and continue listening to the consequences of Mother Nature’s ’Absolute Fury’ over the radio. France, Sweden, Poland — all grounded. Poland — I expect — happy to sit this one out and not risk air travel for a while.

What’s clear is there hasn’t been a volcano this big in a while. I can’t remember the last a volcano did much in my lifetime. I know there have been a few, but every time I wrack my brains Tommy Lee Jones keeps popping up. I puzzle how he managed to re-direct the lava flow in that movie imaginatively titled ‘Volcano’. Stern Organisation. That’s the ticket. Well done Tommy Lee Jones.

Around the braai, we look up once again. A part of me expects the beautiful blue sky, untouched by jet streams or clouds, on this perfect sunny Saturday afternoon to be suddenly steam-rolled by a black mass of fiery volcanic vengeance. But it’s entirely still. No sound from planes, not even the neighbour’s vile R&B whining is polluting the outside space. I even hear a few tweets from birds.

As night sets in we see a few dim stars pop out, and the stillness prevails. Suddenly, a bright light starts moving across the sky. Someone is setting off Chinese lanterns.

If this is the apocalypse, it sure is nice.

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