Wind up

Windy. Rainy. Cold.

The storms over this part of Europe last weekend have left their mark. Trees and powerlines down, flooded basements, lifted rooves, ruined livelihoods...we sat in mute silence as hurricane force winds whipped around the house, swaying the nearby trees…alarmingly…

We had a telephone call from the mayor.

‘Red alert!Red alert! Stay inside…there’s an enormous tempest coming…’

In all my years as a London drone, I never received a call from the mayor. I doubt Boris offers the same level of customer service now, either.


So we did. Stayed inside, that is. Quaking with fear (yeah, ok…I’m hamming it up a bit…but it was averagely petrifying, I’ll have you know.) Airborne debris flew over the attic window. A lethal sheet of corrugated iron landed in the field nearby where it cartwheeled to a standstill against the enormous Holme Oak.

One particularly ferocious gust had all three of us ducking involuntarily…quite funny really….Sprog is not used to his father showing fear…whereas I am, naturally…

Treewise, the conifers seemed to have really suffered. And the larger, more gangly poplars looked twisted and sad.Now, if you poke your nose out into the chill air the buzz of chainsaw bites. Blue EDF choppers surf the cables, checking pylons for damage…there is activity everywhere…

Apart from chez nous.

On Thursday there was a general strike in France, so not a lot was occuring…except for a lot of moaning, gesticulating and whingeing…no change there, then… Sprog was at home, because the teachers wanted to go ski-ing attend a rally.

And blogging is getting harder. The internet connection coupled with our antiquated technology are conspiring against me. This post was written two days ago, but I’ve only just succeeded in getting it up, Mrs.

But hoorah! My least favourite month is almost over. One day we will spend the whole of January somewhere hot, relaxing and luxurious. Perhaps next year…

I’m going outside now to stockpile some seratonin…I just knew it was going to be a good day this morning…there I was in a dreadful morning fug, scratching my head trying to think what to write in Sprog’s school note. He has a cut on his forehead which is slow to heal and I didn’t want him going to the piscine this morning…so I needed to write a note…I dug out the dictionary to find the word for ‘wound’…and would you believe it, it offered me the whole thing…’he has a cut on his forehead’...in lovely, perky French.

Fantastic!