Sunday, 9 February 2014


The wind has blustered around the walls all night, weaving through the scaffolding,lifting the boards and causing them to creak and groan like the timbers of a storm tossed sailing ship. Lying in bed listening, with the outside light of a neighbouring house flickering on, then off; it is as if we are adrift upon a wild ocean, the light beckoning us away from unseen dangers.
The cats seem unperturbed by this disturbance, yet for all that, choose to pile onto the bed, pinning me under an unwanted blanket of warm fur and gently vibrating bodies. If I move, a languid claw is extended, its purpose not to wound, but to remind me of my place.

Quietly, I slide from this soft pile and by the light of a weak sun, barely risen; creep downstairs to see the damage wrought upon the garden. It is not as bad as I feared. The remaining tiles on the roof seem to have stayed pegged to their places, but the small fruit trees have tumbled in their pots, leaning into each other like weary revellers after an eventful night out.
 The wind has lulled somewhat, so still pyjama clad with hastily pulled on jumper and feet slipper shod, I dash out to right the trees; ducking to avoid madly swaying Chinese lanterns on their still strung lines. That's when the wind bites, snatching at my hair, stealing quickly through layers to numb still stiff joints; sending me scuttling back into the calm warmth, for the first coffee of the day.

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