O Western wind, when wilt thou blow?

This house has been far out at sea all night,
The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills,
Winds stampeding the fields under the window
Floundering black astride and blinding wet

Till day rose... (Ted Hughes)

Have I mentioned before that I hate wind? Even ordinary blustery days turn me into a cat with my fur ruffled the wrong way, skittery and tetchy and generally on edge. I hate my hair being mussed up the minute I go outside, and the way every object develops a will of its own and refuses to cooperate: flowerpots snatch out of your hand and whip away into the distance, smoke from the chimney blows in your face, dust gets in your eyes. In this not-very-windtight house doors left ajar for a moment bang incessantly, then slam when the back door is opened. Last year a gale almost blew the side wall off the garden shed.

Today is just such a day, and it has followed a night of relentless clattering and howling. I crave silence and respite from the ceaseless movement. I'm reminded that I still haven't phoned the tree man to come and deal with our ageing ash trees, which are constantly shedding small branches, and occasionally a larger one. But rather than spurring me into action, the knowledge is a further irritant. I can't do it now, it will have to wait until my fur will all lie in the right direction.

We're getting all fluffed up, here...

The chickens, too, are all ruffled up, and look at me very reproachfully when I go outside. I have tried to create some shelter for them at one end of their run, but like me, they'll have to manage until it blows itself out. The forecast for tomorrow is slightly better, but much the same as today on Sunday. Humph!