It’s not very often I feel vulnerable when at home, but when I am in bed in the dead of night, seeking sleep, and outside the wind is whipping and cracking, rocking and moving the wheelie bins, whistling at high pitch across the overflow pipes and window vent, I have visions of airborne debris catapulting into my bedroom window. I don’t have a mental plan of action, who do you call when a roof tile shatters the glass or half a tree branch shifts the sturdy bricks at stupid ‘O’ clock. Maybe it is something that creeps up on you as you age, experience erodes invincibility perhaps.
Storm Emma raged and roared unabashed, shifting the inches of powdered snow and freezing it to where it landed, pushing through the merest cranny to turn a whisper into a palpable icy draft. A couple of streets from me, a tree which has proudly stood at the corner of a bank car park for decades (if not a century) succumbed to the battering assault. Thankfully no person was hurt but a couple of cars were damaged (pictured above).
Today the world beyond my windows looks a picture of frosted innocence, just waiting for a moment of complacency to turn on you and test your resolve.
It’s March, in three weeks I reach a golden mile stone, where is Spring or the milder days of sunshine.