Today was wet and windy - so windy, in fact, that I was in two minds about taking my umbrella when I left the house in the morning.
Once I had reached the long straight stretch of road that leads along the rail track, gusts of wind kept hitting me every few moments, so that I had to grip my umbrella with both hands. Several times, I was literally shoved against a fence or a wall, while yellow, orange and brown leaves were swirling all around me.
By the time I arrived at work slightly out of breath, my hands were very cold, my hair was all over the place and my specs needed wiping before I could do anything else.
Generally, I do not like cold weather. My preferred range of temperature lies between 25 and 35 degrees Celsius, and of course we are nowhere near that now in November.
And yet, getting blown about by the wind has something.
Who has not, some time or other as a kid, imagined what it would be like to be picked up by the storm and been taken to some distant place, high up with the racing clouds, to adventures unheard of and worlds unseen?
Right now, though, at a quarter to eleven in the evening and 6 Celsius outside in the dark, there are only very few adventures that hold much appeal for me.
Going to bed seems the wise thing to do.
Where is my blanket?
