Getting a bit hacked off with these bleedin’ weather forecasters. Sorry Michael but it’s true.
“Batton down the hatches or you’ll be blown over Ben Nevis and your knickers will be in Carlisle” they shout.
Or words to that effect.
So the plans for the weekend are tempered. We had better not plan anything outsidey, walkish or leaving the house unless we are prepared to battle imminent strangling from fast moving fronds in 100 mph winds.
So here I sit. Saturday afternoon blue sky, cold yes but blue sky having just emerged from the cinema with my eskimo hood, goggles, gloves, boots, nose guard, GPS emergency system and flash lamps under each oxter to make sure I don’t perish on my way to retrieve the car in the underground car park.
Honestly. My heart goes out to the folk who are battling with the rising tides and whipping winds down South but I wish to god the meteorogical experts would get their act together and stop lumping us all together.
(That word meteorogical looks wrong. It probably is. Well it goes with the territory I suppose. They’re wrong. I’m wrong.)Annoyed and off to take at least 15 of these 23 layers off before taking the frustrated geriatric dogs out for an early evening stroll in the blue pink skied gloaming.
Hasta La Vista.