Fa minds my wind-tunnel garden?
Just wondered if ony kind cove was thinkin’ o’ me last week as the gale howled. Coz I sure needed some sympathy. It was one of my beloved old gardeners who described my sizeable skelp of land at the back as a wind-tunnel. On a hill, big gardens up and doon.
Like Broad Street with grass. He should have known because him and his loon were summoned to me every time there was onything resembling a hearty puff because my fence to the left crashed doon.
The very worst was the first time it happened; became detached and, like a gigantic sail, battered back and forth, hitting the ground with earsplitting crashes at 5am in the morning. Couldnae yank it oot. Couldnae get onythng to keep it up. So I stood, huddin’ it up (and my tears in) in my dressing goon and slippers, until the wind died doon aboot 5.30am.
Eventually my gadgies built me a cracker of a reinforced fence, which I reckon would withstand a major earthquake. Then the one my neighbour built on the other side started fa’in doon with every gale. So I’d been dreading the storm whose name I canna pronounce for about a week.
Storm Eowyn fair blasted my hoosie
Got my son-in-law to move my grandson’s punching bag, even though it’s on a heavy metal stand and withstood high winds before. But this time just in case. My major fear is something heavy cannoning through my huge floor-to-ceiling windows and the wind sookin’ me oot. Like Dorothy in her tornado. Patio chairs piled up in a sheltered bit. Parasol removed from table, which I left where it was because it weighs a ton and has never budged in the worst weather. (Famous last words.)
Slept not a wink waiting for Eowyn to Eeeewooon in, ETA 6am Friday. Sure enough, the wind started screamin’ aroon am. Suddenly I regretted pittin’ my bin oot the night afore.
It could topple and a’ my gubbins take flight. So, around 6.30am when it was really beginnin’ to bla’ a hoolly, I decided to tak’ it in again. On wie my coat, long lavender goonie stickin’ oot the bottom, red bedsocks and trainers, hair on end.
I kint I looked a sotter, but the road would be deserted apart from an occasional speeding van. Oh no it wasn’t. Just as this vision of loveliness reached the pavement, fit suddenly appeared ony a few feet awa’ fae me but the 6.10am bussie fae Scatterburn, complete with gawping driver and passengers. Get yer lookie?
Black affronted, I back to cower fae the howls in my bed, radio on loud. But nae loud enough to deafen me from the almighty, terrifying blast of breaking glass about half an hour later. I near tiddled masellie wie the shock and fear. Was that my huge window ie one side of my living room gone? Shakkin, I crept through and keeked in the room.
Curtains still closed. Slowly, slowly opened them to reveal … a river of smithereens of glass across the patio. Fit the? No, nae my precious windows. Have ye guessed? Yup, that patio table I believed wouldn’t move was rolling on its side, the wind presumably having caught it from underneath, its glass top smashed across the paving stones. Why, oh why didn’t I move it when I did the punch-bag? My poor, brand new next door neighbour’s greenhouse also suffered Eeeeooon damage. Welcome to Wind-Tunnel Terrace.
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press and Journal and started her journalism career in 1970.
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