Hand me that light cotton shirt with pictures of palm trees and hibiscus and girls on the back. Trim the raggedy bits from the brim of my wide straw hat. Pass me that tiny umbrella, that bottle of strong clear liquor and half a hollowed-out pineapple, and together let's roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer. Come on, now, don't be shy. There is plenty of summer to go around for everyone.

Ah, summer is here, and I am happy 'tis so. I like summer. I like its happy yellow cheeks on those pulsating suns on the SABC3 weather report. I like electric fans and sunglasses and beer. I like the fact that I live more than 1 000km from Cape Town. Most of all, in summer, I like the thunderstorms. Johannesburg had its first big thunderstorm of the season this week, and what a sight it was. The night sky turned black and white. It marbled with lightning. It was like being at the centre of some vast nervous system.

The lightning was right above my apartment, and it did two things. First, it disabled my satellite dish. There is something unsettling about a satellite dish fallen mum. "Behold!" you feel like saying. "Behold the fate of proud technology before the boom and blast of nature!" At which point you realise that tonight you have started with the bourbon earlier than usual.

When lightning has struck your television silent, you find yourself unexpectedly with several hours of unplanned leisure time on your hands. It is only the resourceful columnist who is not nonplussed. At first I amused myself trying to think up uses for a disabled satellite dish. It might double as a large wok, perhaps, handy for those evenings when you find yourself catering for a small southeast Asian nation. A hard-hat yarmulke for some gigantic Jewish man visiting a construction site. A diaphragm for the Statue of Liberty when she goes on her third date with the Colossus of Rhodes. Painted pea-green, it would make a good back-up boat for an owl and a pussy-cat.

(Please do not write to tell me that a domestic satellite dish is too small to be an effective diaphragm for Lady Liberty. A gentleman does not inquire too closely about such things. Besides, the price of Liberty is eternal vigilance.)

Then I wandered out on my balcony to inspect my tree. I have told you about my tree. My tree is huge and green and rustles in the strong wind. Many's the night I have stood wordlessly admiring its huge rustling greenness. I don't write poems about it or anything weird like that, but I like looking at it. Or liked.

What I saw by the hallucinatory white flare of the sky astonished me. My tree had been struck by lightning. The lower portion of its trunk stuck jagged in the sky, like the mast of the Pequod as the ship slipped below the waves. The lawn was awash in kindling and matchsticks, like the flotsam of a sudden wreck. It was all very moving.

I was sad to lose my tree, and sadder that I had not seen it go. I have a hidden list of things I want to do before I'm dead, and somewhere down that list is seeing a great tree being struck by lightning. I have always considered the chances to be small of seeing anything at all being struck by lightning. Lightning strikes quickly, and how do you know where to look?

Your only clue is to be looking someplace it hasn't struck before, and that doesn't narrow the field much. As far as I know, lightning has never struck George Bush, but I can't say I want to spend the rest of my life looking at George Bush on the off-chance of getting lucky. Ain't that just like life: lightning struck and shattered a great tree 20m from where I sat on my sofa, and at the time I happened to be looking down at the ice cubes in my tumbler, or making shadow puppets on the wall, or something equally typical.

So without my satellite dish, the closest I have come to television this week is meeting Jerry Springer, out at Caesar's. I have long been a committed Springerphile, so it was quite an experience. We didn't speak for long, but I giggled and had my photograph taken with him, like a small Japanese girl at Disneyland giggling and posing next to Goofy. It was good to meet Jerry Springer. Meeting Jerry Springer wasn't on my hidden list of things to do before I am dead, but it was a lot better than, say, meeting Oprah.

Someone mentioned to Jerry Springer that I write a television column. "A television column?" said Jerry Springer. "Well, there's a lot of television around. You must have no problem writing your column each week."

"Oh, sometimes you'd be surprised," I said, mentally counting how many words that would be when I wrote it out.

Jerry Springer was a very nice man. He was funny and intelligent and didn't get annoyed when some cretin from The Citizen asked him about his plans for bombing Iraq. I liked Jerry Springer, although not enough to ask him to my book launch this week. Only important and valued people get invited to my book launch. See the bottom of this column to find out if you are an important and valued person.

Soon enough, in the way of such things, Jerry Springer had to leave. "It was good to meet you, Mr Springer," I said.

"Mr Springer?" said Jerry Springer. "No one's called me Mr Springer since... oh, wait, actually someone called me Mr Springer about 20 minutes ago." Jerry Springer is funny like that.