The weather became unexpectedly exciting last night.
By three o’ clock in the morning the rain was battering down in sheets. This is usually a figure of speech, but last night was so thrillingly weathery that you could actually see the sheets of rain blowing on the gusts of wind, great walls of water howling towards you from across the lake. This was not at all dreadful whilst we were sitting comfortably in snug taxis outside the nightclub, reading historical novels and drinking chai out of china cups, and occasionally looking out of the window and exclaiming: “Oh, my!” at the whole stormy wetness of it all.
It became quite a different matter when walking the dogs an hour later. That was not in the least nice .
I had volunteered to do the dog-emptying duty, so that Mark could have the first shower. This was because he was driving to York to collect Lucy today. In consequence of this I was on my own.
I did not like this.
The wind was buffeting from all directions, as if all four winds had decided to meet up in the Library Gardens and have a fist-fight. The trees were bending over hard and howling, and one of them was creaking, grimly.
I scurried very quickly indeed past some of the bigger ones, especially the ancient beech tree that we know has got rot problems around its roots. The rain stung my eyes and lashed my hair into a sodden tangle. The dogs pointed their noses forward and we all scampered around as quickly as ever we could.
It was made all the worse by being on my own, although of course it would not have made the smallest bit of difference if Mark had been with me, except that we would have had two sodden coats to hang over the hearth afterwards. He would not have been able to save me from unexpectedly plummeting branches or the lake suddenly turning into a tsunami. I do not even know if the dogs emptied themselves or not, and didn’t care. When we finally burst through the back door, the house was startlingly silent, and the raging weather gone.
After Mark had gone to York this morning I took the dogs back around again. The weather was still wild, but untroublingly so, like the wildness of a teenager at a school disco compared to the wildness of the sort of Hell’s Angel who does a wee on his jeans before he puts them on.
The paths were strewn with fallen branches, although none of them skull-crushingly lethal, and everywhere seemed to have been painted with a thin covering of mud. The dogs scampered about sniffing things, but the best of the dog-smells had been washed away, and they lost interest quickly.
I had just got home, and was busying myself with laundry, when the doorbell rang.
On the doorstep was a lady I had never seen before, holding something large and square. It did not look like the latest issue of The Watchtower, so I did not pretend that the baby was crying and close the door.
What was more, she knew my name.
I almost closed the door then, but I was jolly pleased afterwards that I hadn’t.
She and her husband have come to live at Number Six, a couple of doors away. Well, they are going to live in it sometimes and rent it out to people on their holidays the rest of the time. This always seems to me to be a very nice thing to do if you have got a house in a lovely place, to share it out a bit.
Anyway, it turned out that she had put a leaflet through everybody’s door a year or so ago, explaining that they wanted to come to live here, and wondering if anyone knew of any houses for sale cheaply.
With my usual lack of ability to mind my own business I had sent her an email telling her about Number Six. The chap who owned it had started renovating it years ago, got bored and left it. I don’t like him very much. He is a fireman.
The house has been empty and unloved for the past ten years. We borrow its dustbin in times of trouble. I gave her the owner’s address and added some advice about the best way to approach him, along with some uncharitable personal remarks, and wished her luck.
She had followed the suggestion, and today they had collected the keys.
I could not have been more pleased. Rarely does interfering in other people’s business have such a satisfactory result.
The large square thing turned out to be a wonderful box of Green & Black’s chocolates, which are my favourite.
Today is a Good Day.
Another one.
The picture is the remains of the Air Cadet centre, which is being turned into dry washing and hot kettles and warm toes.
1 Comment
Alarmed at the sight of all of those nails. They get stuck in the bottom of the stove, stay there forever, and make it impossible to riddle the ashes. En garde.