Mighty winds shake the Village.

Beating, battering. Remorseless and with no respect for man, property nor precedent. This wind sneers at the feeble word 'gale'. It moons at the Beaufort scale.

Elemental forces crushing the puny constructs of man. Bricks and concrete - impostors they might be. Impotent to the intensity unleashed by an angry planet.

It is windy.

I venture outside to rescue our wheelie bin. It is looking disgruntled at being left to its own devices, and much of my rubbish is now in Belgium. I jam it up against a holly bush to try to give it some stability.

Above me, the TV aerial swings wildly on the end of a cable. It seems to have taken some chimney with it, which has ruined my chances of ever establishing what was supporting what. Next door, Short Tony's merely droops. I risk the twenty-yard trek in order to tell him.

"Ah," he replies, looking at it at some length.

Some policemen set up a roadblock outside Big A's house. A tree has fallen!!! They work hard at their rural community-based task, knowing that sooner or later there will be a heart-warming ITV1 light drama series going out at 8.30pm on Sunday nights about them.

Short Tony spots a huge branch in the road. We run out to gather the free wood.

Later, Mrs Martin the IT Consultant telephones. Her garden fence has been blown into her neighbours backyard. I do not ask her if this is a euphemism.