The wind roars through the trees as if it’s playing kiss chase with the rain.
It billows and buffets, swooping and whirling through the branches. The air is bitterly cold on my hands and face and I wish I’d come out with gloves and a hat.
After the rain will come sunshine, the weathermen say, at least in the south east. But who in Dorset cares about the south east? This is the westcountry, the stand-alone south west.
And, according to all sources, the street is not the place to go. Stay inside, stay inside, the wind says. And let’s hope the roof tiles don’t fly off any time soon.