Storm Imogen is all you might imagine. She’s hooting and hollering, raging and lashing over the hills and down to the coast.
Advertising hoardings are flying like big flat kites, everywhere you look. There is a tremendous roaring through the trees, a rage of lions inside every one of them, battling with squealing monkeys and shaking the branches until they’re fit to burst.
And burst they do, crashing down onto lanes and roads all over the county, roads covered in king-sized sheets of rainwater and debris the size of dinner plates.
I take a central path through the fields this morning, far away from the bustling beech and anxious ash. The rain hurts my face as it spears my cheekbones. The wind howls down my ear and shakes hands with my sinuses.
Down on the coast, the waves are rolling backwards, too afraid of what might happen if they hit the shore. Roof tiles lie like archaeological spoil around the houses from which they have fallen.
Inside, the Aga coughs and blows back every time a gust of wind makes a grab for the flue.
And the dog lies out as if nothing is wrong while the Bee Gees sing Night Fever on Smooth Radio.