There is nothing common about the northern lights

It was 10.45pm and our film had just finished. I checked my phone and saw a friend claiming he had just seen the northern lights — in Wembley. It had been trailed as a possibility, but I hadn’t given it much credence. Not with the light pollution inside the M25, surely. You’d need to head up to the Chilterns at least, and even then be incredibly lucky.  

But I dashed to the back garden anyway. The night sky certainly had an unusual clarity, almost shimmering, and you could clearly make out the whole of the moon behind the shining crescent. But no colours. My Wembley pal must have mistaken the glow of an all-night garage for the celestial cosmos.  I went back inside and poured another glass of wine. But then I saw a second friend saying they were seeing them — in Finchley: even closer. I went back outside again.

And, yes, there was now quite clearly a giant stripe of green rising directly before me — and soon a parallel stripe of red.