Sometimes, when you are feeling low, and all your problems are piling up, and it seems like there is no way out, a flash of creative genius may suddenly come out of nowhere and change your life for the better for ever. That is what happened to me a couple of days ago.

My problems were three in number:

1. My left shoulder was more or less immobile and my left leg was hurting as a result of a nasty bicycle accident I had a couple of weeks ago.

2. I was short of intimate female companionship, having spent the last couple of weeks in a foreign city, far from the arms and charms of the mother of my progeny.

3. The weather in said city was less than optimal. At the time of which I speak, a thunderstorm presented me with a choice between remaining for an indeterminate length of time in the United Nations building (a fine piece of architecture, but lacking in attractions for a young man wishing to relax after a hard days' work) and getting soaked on the way to the bus stop.

While I was watching the thunderstorm, a poem by Goethe came into my mind. I imagined how much fun it would be to stand on top of a mountain roaring defiance at the storm in the words of this poem. I imagined how dramatic this would look, and how attractive to women, particularly intelligent women of culture who still appreciate strength and bravado in a man. My imagination wandered further to consider the possibility of being struck by lightning during this exercise. Suddenly revelation struck: the power of the lightning could be used to heal my injured left side! After all, if Dr. Frankenstein could awaken dead flesh to life with the power of the lightning bolt, surely it would be a mere bagatelle to use that power to fix up my acromio-clavicular joint and get rid of the bruise on my thigh! There would probably even be enough energy left over to dry my trousers afterwards. Obviously, this would require a fairly high level of psychic control and the like, but since I once read something on the intarweb about tantric sex and since I went to some yoga classes a few years ago, I didn't think this should be a problem. I leapt into action at once. And at once I realised that the realisation of my plan would require resourcefulness and ingenuity.

The first challenge was that the closest mountain was some distance away. However, the Palais des Nations is on top of a hill, so I decided that climbing onto the top of the building would probably do the trick. Until a few years ago it was easy to get out onto the roof and enjoy the view across the lake, but since the September 11, 2001 attacks in the US, the doors have been shut and sealed. Presumably so that no-one will fly a plane through them. On reflection, I decided that I would just have to break the seals, like the unconventional rebel that I am.

The second challenge was that if I just went up onto the roof and got zapped while declaiming, the chances of anyone noticing this were remote. No-one with any sense was outside in the rain, and those that were were keeping their heads down and moving as quickly as they could to get out of it. I called the local CNN office and informed them of my intentions. Later on in the evening, when the images appeared on the television in a bar of my acquaintance, I would casually let slip that that was me, and my success with the womenfolk would be assured.

The final challenge was the poem itself. I did not know it by heart. I quickly found a wireless hotspot and found the text of the poem. But then it occurred to me that if I was going to be appearing on an English speaking television station it would be more appropriate, and indeed effective, to declaim the work in English. I found some translations, but they lacked the power of the original. I decided to make my own.

Translating poetry is not an easy task. Although the first line: 'Bedecke deinen Himmel, Zeus', is easy enough ('Cover up your heavens, Zeus), the second already presents the serious translator with a knotty problem: 'Mit Wolkendunst!'. Hmm. 'With cloudy vapours', as in the translation I had found on the net, was not really ideal. Goethe was referring to thunder clouds, known for being thick and threatening, but in preparation for his later mockery of Zeus and the gods in general, he coined this word that implied that these clouds were in fact made of thin and flimsy stuff. Very difficult to render in English, and indeed it was not surprising that other translators had felt the need to settle for more or less unsatisfactory solutions….

After a couple of hours spent attempting to produce a translation of at least the first five lines of the poem which would be sufficiently impressive when roared in defiance at the storm, I realised that the storm had passed, that the setting sun was shining, and that the birds were singing. CNN had presumably given up and gone home. But when the next storm comes, I will be prepared.