We’ve had a few storm systems invade the Shire in the
fourteen years since I came to live here, so I’m no stranger to roaring winds
carrying the constant threat of damage and general mayhem. We’ve also had
several heavy electrical storms which produced downfalls of Biblical
proportions, the blessed water from which sometimes found access to my living
room through the ceiling. What I’ve never known during that time was the
combination of the two – winds with the power and voice of an express train
combined with rain of truly monsoon proportions. It felt apocalyptic; it even
felt a little scary.
At 10.34 am the power went off just as I was about to make the day's first cup of tea. I reached for the little camping stove which I keep
under the sink. The butane cartridge was empty, so that put paid to any
prospect of getting a hot drink. Deciding that I had little course of
recreation open to me, I decided to read. I reached for the little camping lamp
which I also keep under the sink. Its butane cartridge was empty, too. Knowing
that Madame Ciara was ingratiating her unwelcome presence throughout the length
and breadth of the UK,
I realised that the electric repair men would be uncommonly busy and
anticipated a long wait. Prospects looked bleak: no heating, no hot drinks, no
cooked food, no internet, no writing blog posts, no reading because it was too
dark, no electric blanket at night, and no opening the fridge because the last
thing you want to do when the electric is off is let warm air into the cabinet. I anticipated a lunch of
a bag of crisps and a couple of biscuits. I didn’t bother to think beyond that.
And then fate smiled. The power was restored a mere hour and
a half later. I realised that one of life’s greatest pleasures is to see and
hear things which we take for granted, but which have fallen cold, dark and lifeless,
suddenly burst into wholesome light and function again. Kudos to the sturdy men
(and women if applicable) from Western Power Distribution. Thank you, guys. I decided to have an early
lunch sans crisps and biscuits, and threw the fridge door open with great
delight and reckless abandon.
After lunch I went to check on the garden, and saw as I did
so that the road had become a river again. The grids were all blocked by little
dams of arboreal detritus which were sending the water back out into the middle
of the road. Well, that at least gave me something useful to do – get out there
with the spade and clear the grids so the blessed water could make its way back
to its source by the most expedient means possible. The drain water from this
part of the Shire makes its way into a deep channel which runs alongside the
Lady B’s erstwhile abode and, as far as I know, empties into the river about
half a mile across the fields. And so I did. The wind was still booming, but
the rain at least was lighter.
A little aside:
I used to worry about the Lady B and her dear Mama and
sister during periods of heavy rain. I was concerned that the channel might
fill to overflowing and the Shire’s premier family might be swept to an
ignominious end somewhere around the confluence of the Rivers Dove and Trent.
It never happened.
Nevertheless, it was of particular concern during the record
wet summer of 2012, but all was well. The Lady B went to Egypt on
holiday that year, and when she returned she was a changed woman. That was when
she began to gravitate further and further out to the periphery of my orbit,
and eventually disappeared altogether like the smile of Carroll’s cat. Life has
an odd way of working out, doesn’t it?
End of aside.
Yes, I know other parts of the world get weather like this,
and worse, all the time. But they’re used to it.
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