We are on our fourth major wind storm/gale/hurricane/banana in about two weeks.
I do not know why this type of wind storm suddenly got popular in these parts. It never used to. Obviously it can’t be down to global warming because we all know that can’t exist, despite the fact that the magnolia tree two doors down is budding in December.
Anyway, for some reason we are now giving all our winds names, rather like people abroad , in furrin parts do. Our wind names are, as you would expect from a second rate country who still thinks it can play with the big boys, rather pathetic in the grand scheme of things. So far I think we’ve had Alice, Barney, Chesney (I have no idea btw) and this one is Desmond. It is definitely Desmond.
I despair. I mean what sort of a name is Desmond for a storm for goodness sakes? Who wants to admit that Desmond blew down their summer house or knocked the slates off the roof?
Why can’t we, if we think we’re so important, and we do, have proper names for our storms? Argonaut, Brunnhilde, Caravaggio and Deathstar are all brilliant. You’d be much more likely to tell someone that the Deathstar knocked down your pergola.
Well I would.
Regardless of what it is called, the wind is howling. All the garden furniture is skittering about and the trees are bending their backs into it.
The cat is going absolutely mental. She hates the wind. Hates it.
Not only does it make her frightened, in between cowering she gets, as my mother says; ‘the wind in her tail’. This involves her going absolutely bonkers and galloping about the house, pouncing at us from the stair well, and wrestling small things off of tables so that she can kill them until they are quite, quite dead.
She chirps and shouts and leaps about and gets absolutely incensed when she can’t go out and have a pooh in the garden, because the garden is whipping by her ears at 100 mph. I can understand this. Nobody wants to pooh in 100 mph winds.
The night before last she got trapped in the wardrobe in our bedroom. Not having a pooh, I’m grateful to say. It’s just that she likes to go and hide in there when the wind gets really up her. All day she had been trotting backwards and forwards, in and out, taking refuge in Jason’s winter woolies.
I went to bed early to read my book. Jason came up at about 9.00 p.m. to sort his clothes out for work the next day and went to shut the wardrobe door. I reminded him to check for the cat, but all was quiet and it seemed she was probably downstairs waiting to pounce on him.
He went away. I carried on reading. Ten minutes in I could hear a scritching noise. I put the book down and listened. It seemed to be coming from near the window. Sometimes the cat gets stuck in the curtains. Don’t judge me. I didn’t pick her for her brains. I went to investigate. No cat, but still scritching. Then I heard a faint, echoing ‘mow’ sound. She was in the bloody wardrobe.
I opened the door and said: ‘Out! Now!’
A plaintive ‘mow’ drifted from the darkest bowels of the wardrobe, possibly even Narnia, it took that long to reach me.
I said very firmly: ‘NOW!’
She slunk out of the cupboard, giving me the side eye and skittered off to bite Jason to prove that she hadn’t done anything quite as stupid as get locked in the wardrobe, and if she had it was all our fault.
That Desmond Deathstar has a lot to answer for.